


Inevitable

by areyoureddiekids



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Dry Humping, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Hate to Love, Lilith - Freeform, Murder, Named Reader, Slow Burn, Smut, Swearing, alpha-langdon, bc fuck that finale, follow my tumblr, oh the sexual tension hunny, reader is d o n e with this shit, step right up, the usual, you want an ending that makes fucking sense?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-21 02:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 38,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16567487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoureddiekids/pseuds/areyoureddiekids
Summary: She was the Daughter of Lilith; the Spawn of Adam’s first wife; the Queen of the Demons. He was a bratty Antichrist with more issues than fucking Vogue.She wants to hate him. Really, she does.





	1. Chapter 1

For a year, he is a blurred.

He appears in your dreams; half-solid and golden hair shaking. You hardly remember when you dream of him, and why would you? He was a face that appeared amongst the distorted mess that were your dreams; a face that meant nothing to you, other than, what you assumed, was something your mind must be replaying in your sleep.

You heard, once, that you could see someone in the street and dream of them afterwards. Your brain latches onto that face, and mimics it in the deepest recesses of your mind. 

As stated, you had dreamt of him for a year, on and off. Never enough to cause alarm, but enough to tell your friends with muted giggles that you always dreamt of some hot guy with blue eyes, and that you obviously needed to quench your  _thirst_.

They would laugh, and you would forget about it. 

You are sixteen the first time he becomes a solid mass within your dreams. You are sixteen the first time you talk to him. You are sixteen the first time you come face to face with Michael Langdon.

You would come to find, much later, such a thing was inevitable, really. You were fated, the two of you.

You know you dreamt about things before you dream about him, but you can’t remember  _what_ about. Probably the recurring dream of being on a plane with Nicki Minaj, or the one where you trip over a your graduation. You are only half-aware of your surroundings, but it is the kind of dream when you are aware of the fact that you are dreaming.

He isn’t there, just as suddenly as he is. 

You don’t know how or when you move to stand near him, but you do. The dream is distorted and wrong, and you move through it like dust in a sunbeam. You touch him, and he looks at you, and you become quite stumped at how vivid he seems amongst the blurring surroundings of your dream.

‘It’s  _you_ ,’ he says, and you frown and laugh and, really, you don’t know what is happening. This dream is  _odd_. The boy frowns, all wide blue eyes and a mess of golden hair, and he tugs at the pale white of his shirt. He seems young and old at the same time, you think.

He’s pretty fucking hot, too.

‘Who the  _fuck_ are you, dude?’ you inquire, half-surprised to hear your voice so clear. Absently, you hope you remember this dream when you wake up. You so rarely have ones when you know that you are dreaming; and so  _vivid_.

The boy, all ethereal and pretty, tilts his head and furrows a brow. ‘You don’t know?’

You’re not aware of moving, but you think that you frown and step around him. ‘ _Should_ I?’

He is moving toward you, fingers outstretched and brow still stiff and furrowed. You allow him to touch you, curious of this odd and lilting dream. When his fingers drift through your shoulder, you think nothing of it. He huffs and yanks his hand away, gaze snapping back to yours. ‘I didn’t know what you would be like,’ he tells you, quiet and careful. You have no fucking clue what the words mean, and you’re not sure you really give a shit. ‘You’re pretty’.

You snort and reply, ‘You’re pretty, too’. You look around, understanding for the first time that you are in darkness, but shapes surround you, foreign and moving. ‘This is a weird dream’.

He moves closer to you, this boy you had conjured in your mind, and you watch him frown once again. ‘You don’t think this is real,’ he states, and you’re almost stumped at the complexity of this dream. The  _realness_ of it. ‘You don’t know who I am’.

‘You keep saying that,’ you mutter, voice wispy in the dreamy air. ‘I wonder how I know you. In real life, I mean’. You shrug. ‘Must have got your face from somewhere’.

His gaze feasts on you, before he murmurs, ‘You don’t. Not yet’.

-

People have always said that, for someone so academically successful, you lacked common sense to an exceedingly worryingly degree. 

You can’t fault then on this, really. You were always late, always forgetting something, always tripping over yourself or your words. It is why you hardly think on the odd dream, aside from the five seconds after you wake up.

You go to school, a High School on the outskirts of Los Angeles, you come home, you do your homework, you call you friends, you speak to your parents (dad tells you that he had found a dead bird outside of your window, and you think nothing of it), you have dinner, and then you go to bed.

Not before dicking about on your phone for a little while, of course. It was the same every night; a quick check on Twitter, a scroll through Facebook, a glimpse at your favourite celebrities on Instagram. You fall asleep with your phone resting on your chest and your mouth half open-

And after what seems like a split second, you are being tugged upward by warm hands and cerulean eyes.

You frown, befuddled and woozy, and say into the darkness, ‘This is fucking weird. Should I be having dreams this vivid-’

The boy is the same as before, except he wears a blue shirt this time. He holds your hand, until you snatch it away from his grasp and blink so hard you start to feel dizzy. Fuck, was feeling dizzy something you could even feel in a dream?

 _Weird_.

He eyes you, his hand flexing at his side. He really was beautiful, all smooth skin and golden curls. ‘I  _tried_ to tell you last night that this isn’t a dream’. His voice holds both innocence and knowledge, and you find the idea baffling. 

‘… _Huh_?’ you gawp, baffled and bemused. ‘Look, this is  _kind_ of a shitty dream-’

He is frowning harder this time, and a trace of annoyance settles across his features. Christ, you even annoyed make-believe people in your dreams. Your friends always told you that your mouth would get you in trouble one day. ‘ _This isn’t a dream_ ,’ he snaps roughly, those blue eyes narrowing. ‘You should have known this would happen-’

 _‘What would happen?’_  you snap right back, deciding that if your dream was going to be a dick, you would be a dick right back. 

‘-Miss Mead  _insisted_ that you would have been raised to know your Path, as I was-’

‘Oh my God,  _what_?’

He huffs and purses his lips at you, this oddly clear vision of your unconscious mind. ‘Will you let me talk?’

‘Will  _you_ let  _me_ talk?’

He stares at you, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. ‘You are unbearable,’ he mutters. ‘How is it that  _you_ are the Daughter of  _Lilith_ -’

‘The fucking  _what_ now?’

‘What’s your name?’ He steps closer, blinking hard and eyes digging into your fucking  _soul_. This guy, this weird fucking conjuring, was intense as shit. You push your dark hair back, affronted and slightly pissed off. 

‘Joan,’ you grouse, crossing your arms over your chest and realising, oddly embarrassed (because this…this wasn’t  _real_ ) that you were wearing your Disney pyjama shirt and shorts. 

He hums, short and snottily. ‘I am Michael’.

‘I didn’t ask’.

He gapes once again, all kinds of offended, and you kind of want to judge your own mind for making up such an  _asshole_. ‘Pushing aside your utter  _rudeness_ ,’ he snips, scanning your expression. ‘You’ve seen me in these…dreams before, right?’

You think, and you know. It is a fact that you know in real life, but until this moment, in this dream, you had not remembered until he had said it. ‘Huh. Yeah. You  _were_ always blurry’. You sniff in disdain. ‘The  _good_ old days’.

He stares, quite deadpan, to which you snort. ‘You have  _got_ to realise that this is real, Joan. I’m real’.

You frown. ‘No’.

‘Yes-’

‘That’s stupid’.

‘ _You’re_ st-’ He cuts himself off, stands straight , and then glares at you. ‘How do you not know who you are…who _I_  am? You should have been told this by your parents-’

You scoff, already quite bored of this odd dream. ‘I  _do_ know who you are. You’re Michael’.

The boy blinks rapidly, apparently dumbstruck. ‘You  _know_ what I mean-’

Something tugs at the back of your mind, and you blink and stumble back. That was…odd. Were you waking up? A rapid beeping filters into the darkness around the two of you, and you look back at the angelic looking boy with a shrug and a, ‘I think I’m waking up now, weird conjuring of my mind. Deuces’.

-

You, once again, think nothing of the odd dream. You mention it to your friends, who inform you very seriously that they always suspected there was something seriously wrong with you. 

It is at that moment, in your Science lab at school, that a white dove bangs with a pop into the window, and your classmates flock to watch the feathers puff into the air like confetti.

You don’t. Something, and you are not sure what, seems to curl around the back of you neck, a ghostly imprint of a vice-like grip. You shake the feeling away, blinking hard at the cracked window.

That night, you see him again. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next time you dream about it, it is three days later and he is frowning at you.

You, in return, huff out a sigh and try to think of how you got here. Once again, you remember so little. The dreams were warped and odd; like nothing was solid until you were faced with this beautiful boy.

You tut and groan when you see him emerge from the darkness, to which he wrinkles his brow and utters a, ‘Miss Mead said that I should leave you alone for a few days, as to not worry you-’

You ignore him, already milling over what could possibly draw you to dream of this off boy, and this odd situation. You had googled dreams, and it was pretty obvious that this dream had no solid meaning. Your friends thought it was interesting, and your dad had jokes that maybe you were going mad.

Honestly, with how real the boy before you seemed, you wouldn’t fault that.

‘-Are you even  _listening_?’ he snaps, mop of blonde hair falling into his eyes. You look back at him, curious and thoughtful. He seemed like the type of boy you would dream up. Tall, lithe, pretty and blonde. He was ridiculous -  _too_ pretty to be real. Except…why would you dream up such a  _brat_?

‘Um, no,’ you admit, clipped. ‘Look, I assumed this dream would have fucked off by now. I mean, I’ve been having the one about the dinosaur in the gardening centre since I was a kid, but this is way more realistic-’ You cut yourself off, lick your lips, and say, ‘Say something I wouldn’t know’.

‘… _What_?’

You roll your eyes and take a step forward, more than aware of the way his gaze flickers carefully over you. Crossing your arms over your flannel shirt (you had opted to leave the Disney behind as the nights were getting colder), you shrug. ‘If you tell me something I don’t know, something that I wouldn’t make you say, then maybe I’ll start taking this whole dream mini-series seriously’.

He stares at you, slightly put-out. His mouth quirks into a hard frown. ‘I didn’t except you to be like this’. You continue to stare, to which this Michael boy sighs and throws his arms at his sides. ‘ _Fine_. The radius of the sun is 695,508 km-’

You wave a hand. ‘I know that’.

The boy stops, as if praying for patience. ‘ _Okay, then._ A-’ He frowns, before continuing. ‘A sneeze travels out your mouth at over 100 miles per house-’

You let out a startled laugh, to which his ridiculously blue eyes flash to yours in surprise. You snort, a sound that echoes in the darkness, and throw the boy a baffled look. ‘Well, that’s an odd fucking fact to know, my dude’.

‘Michael’.

You frown, the realisation suddenly settling as you sober up. ‘Michael,’ you utter, frowning now. ‘I didn’t know that. What you just said about sneezing. But, I-’

‘I  _am_ real,’ this boy, this Michael, tells you. ‘And there is so much I need to tell you’. He seems to change. An aura floats around him, one that has his back straightening and his jaw tightening. You blink, suddenly aware of your heart pounding (was that supposed to happen in dreams?) ‘So much that, for whatever reason, you do not know-’

You are speechless and, honestly, a little freaked out. ‘This…This is real?’ 

Michael tilts his head, a small smirk curling at his mouth. He considers you with a careful gaze and, for the first time, you consider the fact that this boy might be real. This boy, who you had sworn at, snapped at, and insulted more than once. ‘Very much so,’ he tells you. ‘And this meeting…it has been fated, Joan’.

‘What the  _fuck_ are you on about?’

He seems undeterred by your sudden spooked voice. Micheal takes a step toward you, eyes flickering down to your height as his loose curls frame his face. You pull at the sleeves of your shirt, suddenly feeling ill. ‘You should have been told; you should have been raised to know who you are and who I am-’

There is that tugging again, joined by the beeping that grows louder and louder. Michael stops and blinks, a foul expression crossing his features. You blink at him, and before you can say anything else, you are gone.

You gasp awake into the morning air, your phone alarm blaring and the sound of your parents clattering in the kitchen travelling to your organised mess of a room. 

This, you will know years later, was where it all began.

-

‘Mom’.

Your mother is tall and slim, all freckles and red hair and a narrow nose. Nothing like you. You were dark haired and curved; all hips, ass, soft tummy and standing at 5′6. You assumed you must have got it from your Father, who was dark haired and…

Well, he wasn’t exactly all ‘hips and ass’.

Your mother looks at you, red brow cocked and coffee mug perched at her lips. She flips the newspaper as you Dad slips through the front door for work, a farewell on his lips. She hums, indicating for you to continue. 

‘I’ve been having weird dreams’.

Your Mom continues to look at you, brow arching even further. She chuckles. ‘Be more specific, Jo’.

You shrug, embarrassed. ‘It’s stupid. They just seem so real. And, well, who the fuck is Lilith - oops, sorry. Who the  _fudge_ is Lilith?’

The coffee slips over the edge of her cup, landing with a soft splat on her lap. You blink as your Mother pats at her burning trousers, the steam rising, but her eyes flash back to yours. ‘What do you - do you mean, darling?’

You are on the edge of laughing, so bemused by her reaction. ‘Uh…I don’t know. I just thought of it in my dream, and realised I don’t really know who she is. Some chick from the Bible, right? I think I remember-’

You Mother stares, and her eyes make you stop talking. You are…well, baffled. She looks worried for just a split second, before she huffs a laugh and shakes her head and replies, ‘Dreams are dreams, Jo. No point in worrying about it. Now, go on, you’ll be late for school’.

-

He is there.

He looks like he is waiting.

‘I asked my mom who Lilith is,’ you tell him, to which he cocks a brow and flexes his fingers at his side. His wide-eyed curiosity reminds you of a child once again, and you sniff in confusion. ‘Is this really real?’

He nods, and you frown even harder.

‘She was weird…she…I really don’t understand any of this. Am I going mad?’ You look at him, at this boy, and he looks right back. ‘Who  _are_ you?’ Perhaps it is the way in which you say it, but he does not repeat his name to you. Instead, the boy bites his lip, casts a quick look over his shoulder, before telling you the simplest words that would change the entire course of your life.

‘I am Michael, and I am the Antichrist. And you…you are the Daughter of Lilith’.


	3. Chapter 3

You had not slept in two days.

You feigned sickness with your Mom, too freaked out to even consider telling her the truth. Since that…that weird boy had spoken those words, you had jolted awake and been too worried to go back to sleep.

_The Antichrist._

It wasn’t like other dreams. You could still picture in clarity the curve of his jaw, the blue of his eyes, and the way the boy had tried to reach for you when you had choked on your words upon his declaration. 

_The Daughter of Lilith._

Part of you, a part that was clinging desperately onto the normal life you led, was screaming at you to believe that this was a fragment of your overactive imagination. You had woken up after that…whatever it was, and had curled in on yourself in your bed until the early hours, stayed home from school, and opened Google on your phone.

Lilith was not a good person. She was, in some texts. Queen of fucking Demons, a woman who was Adam’s first wife and would not submit to him, so she got cast aside. She stole fucking babies - what the  _fuck_?

Why were you dreaming about  _that_?

You had not slept since then. You had insisted to your Mother that your period was severe enough for you to have two days bed rest, and your Dad was far too awkward to ask any questions beyond that. 

You were pretty fucking sure you were going mental.

You had elected to play the Sims 4 instead, intent upon staying awake and away from the boy with blonde hair who said horrible, odd things. Your Mom had not mentioned your questions again, and her too bright attitude made you paranoid. It was…ridiculous. What on Earth could there be to hide?

‘You look horrendous’.

You jolt, blinking into the darkness and spinning on your heel. The boy is there, dressed in shorts and a blue shirt, and he is eyeing you with mirth. In return, you stutter and blurt out, 

‘For fuck’s sake. I fell asleep’.

He cocks a brow. ‘I  _thought_ that was it. You’re  _avoiding_ me-’

You throw you arms in the air, on the edge of having some kind of manic episode. ‘How can I ignore you - you’re not fucking r-’

The boy glowers and stalks forward, so far that is hand ghosts through your arm. You jump back, despite the fact that he cannot touch you. ‘I am real,’ he grits out, blue eyes as intense as you have seen them yet. ‘ _You_ are real. This, Joan, is  _fucking real_ ’.

You shake your head. ‘I don’t  _understand_ ’.

He eyes you, closer enough to touch, and yet not able to at all. It is, perhaps, the first time that you consider him a person. A real life person that was speaking to you and trying to tell you something, and for some reason that makes your skin hot all over. You swallow when he juts his jaw out in a petulant way. ‘People have died from not sleeping’.

You blink up at him. ‘I know’. There is silence, and the darkness of your dream swirls around you. ‘You’re Michael,’ you murmur, heart banging so hard against your rib cage that you’re half sure he might be able to hear it. ‘And you’re real’.

He nods, and your laugh.

‘You’re going to need to tell me a little more than that, my dude’.

-

He does.

The boy, this Michael, sits on the floor with you, legs crossed like a child, and tells you that he is Michael Langdon, and is the Son of Satan. In return, you throw him a deadpan look and start pinching yourself in an attempt to wake up, to which he snaps at you to stop it with that same childishly annoyed expression. 

He tells you that he was prophesied. He tells you that you were, too. He tells that you he lives with a woman called Miss Mead, a woman who had taken him in and was guiding him along his path. He tells you, finally, that amongst the prophesied words of him walking the Earth for a thousand years, basked in flame, that the Daughter of Lilith, Queen of the Demons, would walk beside him.

You laugh again, and he sighs and rolls his eyes so hard that you snort. ‘You’re batshit, dude,’ you inform him, to which he cocks a brow and folds his fingers over his ankles. ‘Or I am,’ you consider thoughtfully.

He eyes you, gaze narrowing, before he tilts his head and utters his next words slowly. ‘Your name is Joan Day. You’re sixteen years old, as of three months ago. You are an only child. You attend East Brooke High School. You are, much to your ignorance, adopted’.

The words settle within you, and when they terrify you, you realise that you truly do believe that this boy is real, and had somehow wormed his way into your dreams. It takes only a few seconds for the last of his words to coil around your ears and pierce your mind. ‘I  _beg_ your fucking pardon?’

He smirks, this Michael, and leans back just slightly. His blue eyes feast on your gaping expression. ‘It explains a lot. Miss Mead helped me in finding out where you were taken. Your parents,’ he pulls a little face. ‘Well, your  _real_ ones…they knew  _what_ you were going to be; who you  _were going to be. They had made a deal with the Devil,_ per say. They grew scared of what they had done, as people do, and gave you to other abandoners of my Father’s name-’

You shake your head, dark hair swinging over your shoulders. ‘That’s not true-’

‘Who took you in and raised you as their own. False names and false lives. Your biological parents were killed, of course’. You stare at him and he stares right back. More than anything, you’re fucking baffled as to why there is no malice in his voice. He seemed to…to genuinely just be sharing this information with you, as if he was unaware that it could hurt you. ‘I would have told you this sooner, but you’ve been avoiding me’.

Your fingers curl over your ears, and you shake you head at the boy. ‘This isn’t real. This isn’t fucking real, got that? God and the Devil don’t exist, and you’re just conjuration of my teenage fucking angst or something, yeah? You’re - how the fuck did you know all of that about me-?’

‘Joan,’ he seeks your gaze, shoulders pushing forward as he leans onto his knees. If you could feel any part of him, you are sure that you would feel his breath ghosting your face. ‘You may not believe me, but the sooner you do, the better. There’s no escaping what is to come. They are  _watching_ you,  _waiting_ to serve you as they do to me-’

‘You’re in my head,’ you whisper, fingers now tugging at your hair. ‘That’s all you are-’

‘-Lilith will show you. Just as my Father showed me-’

‘Stop it’.

‘-You are to be whatever I need you to be to me-’

‘STOP IT’.


	4. Chapter 4

You wait at the kitchen table.

You felt as if there was an itch at the back of your head; a desperate need to  _move_. There was so much swirling inside of your mind; so much that you could not even start to comprehend. You knew…knew that some kinds of magic existed. That was proven by that Coven that had made themselves known a few years back, but…

But this was… _ridiculous_. Right?

You had woken up with a start, half leaning over your laptop with tears wetting your cheeks. You felt as if you were going utterly mad. There was too much to think about, and far too much to even comprehend. 

The boy…he was real. He  _had_ to be. There was no way you could possibly make something so real and so…unique appear in your dreams. But if he was real…then what if what he said was real, too?

_The Antichrist._

Your fingers scrape across the tabletop of your kitchen and when the front door bangs open lightly, you drag you gaze away from window to assess the sight of your smiling mother. 

‘Hey, darling - oh, Jo. You look  _awful_. You-’ She balances the briefcase in her hand and a shopping bag in her other, her eyebrows knitted together and her mouth popping open. ‘Darling - what’s wrong?’

You are staring at her, not quite believing the fact that you are considering the words of your dream to be  _true_. It was fucking stupid to even think it. Gods and Devils and Demons - things like that didn’t  _happen_ to you. You went to school and secretly drank cheap booze with your friends at the weekends. That was…that was pretty much your life. 

‘I had another dream,’ you say, finally. Your voice is raspy and your eyes are heavy, and you really think you might already be going mad from lack of sleep. ‘I saw the same boy’.

You don’t miss the twitch of her brow and the straightening of her back, and you wish so fucking desperately that you are being paranoid. That this is some stupid fucking psychological thing that some therapist will fix. And your Dad…could they both really be capable of lying to you like that, of-

‘Oh?’ Her voice is higher than usual, and your swallow tightly. 

You stare at her, at her red hair and pale skin and narrow nose and, God, you really were nothing like her, were you? ‘Are you my Mom?’

You think you see her heart break. 

You think you feel yours. 

‘ _Joan_ -’

Something twists deeply inside of you, and you stagger to your feet with a hysterical laugh and tears biting at your eyes. ‘Holy shit!’ you laugh, fingers digging into your hair. ‘Holy shit -  _no_. No  _way_. You mean…Lilith and the Antichrist and all that shit. It’s  _true_?’

Her expression pales beyond compare, and she looks as if she has been physically punched. Your mother, the woman you have known since you can remember remembering, looks for the first time in your life honestly terrified. ‘He has Risen?’ she whispers. The shopping bag drops to the floor with a clutter. ‘He has…he has  _spoken_ to you-?’

‘Oh my God!’ you wail, caught between laughing and crying. ‘What the  _fuck_ , Mom?! Oh, shit, sorry. That’s not you, is it? I can’t…this is some fairy-tale shit, do you know that?  _What_ \- I’m meant to be with…with the  _Spawn_ of Satan, or some shit-?’

‘ _Language_ -!’ She is clawing for you, her bags discarded and her blue eyes brimming with tears. ‘Jo, please…We  _left_ that life. We took you from your parents and they ran before the Church could find them - we-we did  _everything_ we could to keep you away from that life-’

I throw my hands in the hair. ‘Well, congrats on a  _shitty_ job, dude!’

‘If the Antichrist has come, you  _are_ to be with him-’ She sobs, nails pressed against her trembling mouth. ‘My darling girl, I am so,  _so_ sorry. I hoped it would never happen. I hoped the contract your parents made with the Dark Lord had been broken-’

_‘The Dark Lord-?’_

Something snaps inside of you. 

It is like rage and fire and the blooming of new life all at once. It is like adrenaline curls from inside of you and every worry and horrible thought batters out of you all at once and-and-

And it hits her.

It hurts her.

The sound that spills from her mouth is sharp and terrible, and only made more sickening by the jerk of her shoulders and neck and the crack that resounds around the kitchen. 

It happens in a second. Just a split second. 

She lies there. She crumples like puppet with their strings cut; her head hitting the floor with a resounding crack and her legs splaying awkwardly beneath her. You stare and stare and stare and you don’t realise you are sobbing until you choke your breath-

‘ _Mom_?’

She does not reply.

You don’t think she ever will.

You make your decision quickly.

-

The air outside is cold, and breath fogs in front of your face in quick puffs. You are walking down the street, your fingers clasped in gloves and your heavy bag swinging at your side. 

Money. Clothes. Food. Make-up. Medicine. Everything that you might need. You shake your head and rub your nose, your hands shaking and your eyes stinging, and you avoid the stare of an old woman crossing your path. 

You must look an utter wreck. 

You wonder about the boy. About his Miss Mead. About the people he said would be watching you.  _The Antichrist._ Part of you so desperately wanted to meet him, but another part abhorred the idea of it. It was his fault that this had all happened; his fault that you were like this.

You wonder what your friends will think. You wonder what your Dad will think. You wonder…wonder of your Mom.

You wonder how he will find her. 

Banishing the thought from your mind, you slip around a corner until you see the brighter lights of the City. That’s where you’ll find somewhere to sleep for the night. Be it crashing at some strangers or a motel, anything was better than the cold streets. 

It is then that you feel someone grab at the hood of your coat, and  _yank_. 

You yell and swear, your bag dropping from your shoulder as you flail and spin around to face your attacker. A boy, around your age, with terrible acne and yellowing teeth. You are about to open your mouth and ask him what the fuck he is doing, but then you see the telltale glint of a knife peeking from the curve of his sleeve.

Of fucking course.

‘Give me your fuckin’ money, girl,’ he sneers, broken teeth peeking over a bitten lip. You flail in your mind, so torn between running, fighting, and giving in. You could not risk giving up your money. It was the only thing that would keep you safe, and keep you out of fucking prison. 

 _Murderer_.

You squeeze your eyes shut. ‘Shut  _up_!’ You snap, to no one in particular. 

‘Fuck are you talkin’ to, crazy bitch?’ He stutters the words out, ruining the foreboding nature of them. ‘Gimme your fuckin’ money or I’ll shank-’

You see two things at once.

First, you see the car begin to round the quiet corner at the end of the street and make a very slow, very obvious route toward the two of you. In the back of your mind, you consider that maybe it is a well to-do person who will help you-

Then, you see the blood beading at the corner of the boys mouth. 

This time…this time you’re  _sure_ it isn’t you.

You stagger back, sneakers scraping against the filthy pavement and a dry sob shaking your form.  _Why was this happening_? The boy stutters and chokes, and you blanch when a thick glob of blood bubbles over his lip.

You snap to attention when the car stops beside you, ending its slow pace. You can’t see inside, but you think that you perhaps see a quick glint of of dark lipstick and white skin. You stare, mouth moving silently and chest heaving when the boy falls to the ground, blood pooling and-

And you hear the car door open, and you see a flash of golden curls and angry blue eyes-

And you faint.

Fucking typical, right?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow my tumblr and request me stuff. it's alpha-langdon!

She traces the bridge of your nose with sharp nails and smooth skin, and her blue eyes blink above you with mirth and malice and every sinful emotion there is. You sigh into her, and she touches you softly, like a mother to a child, and leans against your ear to whisper words to your, her voice lilting and beautiful and bringing you back to the real world.

‘ _Adam fooled me_ ,’ she whispers, dark hair making a curtain over your horizontal form. ‘ _Do not let this one treat you as anything but his equal, daughter_ ’.

-

You wake up with a jolt and a gasp, your forehead cracking against someone else’s with a resounding  _smack_! There is a deep yell and a curse, and you are already scrambling off of the double bed before you can even get a proper look at the persons face.

It was a man. Bearded and middle-aged, and he is looking at you with wide eyes and an open mouth. You, in return, scramble against the far wall (beside a bookcase and a closed window) and gape at the cloaked man (a fucking cloak, what the fuck?). ‘Who the hell are  _you_?’ you screech, hand blindly reaching for the bookcase to your right.

‘My  _Lady-’_ he starts, yelling when you throw a rather hefty red book his way, narrowing missing his balding head. ‘I am here to  _serve_ you-!’

_‘Where am I?!’_

You were in a room. A dark walled room with wooden flooring and odd bits of furniture dotted around. Your shoulders sag just slightly when you see your bag places on a chair in the corner of the room, but when you hear a clatter from beyond the closed door, you push yourself further against the wall.

The man, this odd, fucking Disney villain looking dude, holds his hands up and stares at you. ‘We are here to only serve you and our Lord! We mean you  _no_ harm-’

The door slams open, then, and you jump about a fucking mile in the air. There, on the other side, stands a plump woman with dark lipstick and hair pulled into a high bun. She considers the scene before her, before rolling her eyes sky high and snapping, ‘Praise Satan! of course the girl’s going to have a damn heart attack with you  _loomin_ ’ above her, first thing after she wakes up-’

The man, with his sharp beard and watchful eyes, twists his mouth into a tight frown and looks away from the black-haired woman. ‘I was merely ensuring that she  _was going_ to wake up’.

 _Er, what?_ You stare between the two of them, utterly baffled and beginning to go over the memories of the day in your head. What if they knew who you were, and what you had done? What if they were going to call the police on you? What if they…they thought you were a freak for what you had done to your own Mom-?

(Except she wasn’t you Mom. Not really).

Well, what had you  _done_ to her? The sickening crack of her neck would haunt your fucking dreams, you were sure. How had you done that; how had you mustered up enough rage to hurt the woman who had cared for you since you were a baby-?

‘Who the fuck  _are_ you?’ You cut across them, palms pressed flat against the wall and heart hammering an uneven beat in your chest. The memory of the boy with the teeth like bruised apples enters your mind; the way his eyes had bubbled with blood and his lips had stained rouge. 

It hadn’t…hadn’t felt like it was you,  _this_ time.

Fucking hell, were you a  _Witch_?

The woman assesses you with suddenly alert eyes. She steps forward,her chest rising heavily as she looks over you with a tongue darting out to wet her lips. She looked both desperate and elated at the same time. ‘I am your loyal servant, my dear girl. I am here to house you and care for you and make sure you follow your path in life’.

You stare at her, a bubble of hilarity and bemusement bursting within as you let out a short and befuddled laugh. ‘Wh…what?’

You think of the boy with the blue eyes and the golden hair.   _They are watching you, waiting to serve you as they do to me._ That’s what he had said. Was this the  _them_ he had been talking about, but why? Why would they want to serve you-

‘We have waited for so long for the Antichrist and the Daughter of Lilith to rise from the scum of the Earth; to being forth the end of times-’

It is the man who talks this time, but his words die in his throat and with an audible click of his jaw he snaps his mouth shut. You see why straight away. From behind the woman, in the doorway, there comes a tall and lithe teenage boy. One with golden curls falling onto his brow, and cerulean eyes that take you back to the distorted dreams that had started all of this.

He stares at you, head tilting and mouth quirking when, with wide eyes, you breathe, ‘ _Michael_ ’.

_What in the ever-loving fuck is going on?_

Your first thought is that he is real. He is really, truly real and he is standing before you for the first time. He is not a fragment of your imagination. He is a boy, and if he is real-

-Then what he was telling you must be real, too.

He steps into the room, decked out in a blue shirt and dark jeans and white socks. He stares at you, so entirely unblinking. You want to cower and run, but you stand your ground. The woman’s breast heaves, and she stares between the two of you with nothing short of elation. 

‘You killed her,’ he states, and your stomach twists at the words. He must see the horror dawning, because that eerily calm expression stays exactly put as he steps further into the room. ‘It’s good that you did that, Joan’.

‘She was a betrayer of our Dark Lord, as if your false Father,’ she spits the words. You, in return, look wildly between the two of them, confusion marring your mind.

Dark Lord?  _‘Voldemort-?’_

‘They’re looking for you,’ Michael adds. ‘ _We_ found you. I made sure that boy wouldn’t hurt you-’

‘You  _murdered_ him,’ you snap, gaze narrowing and bravery surging back into you. You push yourself away from the wall. ‘I don’t know who you think I am, but-’

‘Oh, hush up,’ the woman drawls, waving a dismissive hand in your direction. ‘You’re safe here. I’m the damn Devil Mama, and I sure as shit am not gonna let anything happen to you, you got that? There isn’t any judgement here, you did what you had to do to that damn woman-’

‘ _Do not let this one treat you as anything but his equal, daughter_ ’. 

You clench your fists at your side, your breathing short and sharp. It is then, for the first time, that you truly consider the fact that every single fact that Michael and your mother had told you was entirely real. You were the Daughter of Lilith, the Queen of the Demons and Adam’s first wife. And Michael, this beautiful boy, he was-

‘You’re the Antichrist’. You don’t state it as a question, and when Michael nods, you try to stop yourself from shuddering. ‘And you…?’ You look between the man and the woman, of whom straighten up and answer quickly.

‘You may call me Miss Mead,’ the woman replies, clipped and with a cocked brow. ‘And this is my house, Joan. You take my offer, and this is where you’ll be stayin’ from now on’.

‘Anton LaVey,’ the man answers simply, offering no more than that. 

You nod, trying your hardest to look as if you were processing this information calmly. You look up sharply once again when Michael utters a short and orderly, ‘I want to talk to Joan alone’. 

You only half-surprised when both adults leave the room without further questions, the door snapping shut behind them and their footsteps echoing around the house. You stall, knowing full well what Michael was capable of, and knowing, even from your short meetings, what a fucking brat this boy could be.

Still, you feel far less like an animal in a zoo, and pull yourself from the wall to narrow you gaze at him. ‘ _I am to be whatever you need you to be to you_ ,’ you say, echoing his words from your dream. ‘If I stay…if I accept this…that’s not going to happen-’

He takes an equal step forward, until the both of you are just two feet apart. He is taller than you, and something electric and needy fills the room when his blue eyes meet your dark ones. ‘You understand what you are, then?’ He cocks a brow, shoulders relaxing. ‘You’re stubborn. I didn’t think you were  _ever_ going to accept it’.

You frown at him, arms crossing quickly over your chest. ‘Fuck off, Michael’.

He smirks, quick as lightening and the actions lifts his whole face from the innocent, curious stare he had been giving you. Your heart thuds at the sight, and you clench your jaw. ‘Miss Mead will look after you, like she does with me. You’ll be safe here’. You don’t answer, and he carries on. ‘I can help you. I am  _way_ more powerful than you, but I  _can_ help you-’

You let out a laugh of disbelief, your brow furrowing heavily. ‘You’re an asshole, you know that?’

He looks you over, blue eyes darting across your form, before they land back on your quickly reddening face. ‘There are clothes in the dresser. They’re mine, but Miss Mead will take you to buy your own. You-’

‘I haven’t even said I’m staying, yet’.

You know the words are useless, and when Michael tilts his head and smirks that fucking smirk, you decide that you entirely loathe this boy. ‘You have no where else to go, Joan. Beside, you and I meeting like this…it was entirely inevitable’.

The words settle in the air between you, deep and meaningful and terrifying you to your core. ‘Everything you’ve told me is true?’ you add. ‘Everything about my real parents?’

He does not pause before answering. ‘Dead and gone. You’re alone. Just like me. Miss Mead is all we have to help us’.

You think the words are sad, and you see just a flicker of anger pass over the boy’s face.  _Okay, so he has some serious issues._ ‘What if I don’t want to bring around the end of times, dude?’

Michael merely tilts his head and smirks yet again, his fingers hanging loosely at his sides and his shirt just a little ruffled. When he licks his lips, you try your hardest to ignore the action. ‘You’ll learn, Joan. I did, too’.


	6. Chapter 6

You had found solace in the house Miss Mead owned; so thankful for a safe place to stay. You had turned on the News only once, seen the snippets about your mothers murder and your disappearance, and then Mead had turned it off with a clock of her tongue and a, 

‘No point in lookin’ at any of that’.

The bedroom you had awoken in, you first day here, was yours. You spread the few things you had taken from home around the plain room, already missing your posters and nick-nacks and pictures of your friends.

Your friends. They probably thought you were dead.

The idea makes your heart hurt, but you push the idea aside. What other choice did you have, but to stay here? You were something else entirely, something you never would have dreamt of, and that fucking scared you. You needed to be with people who could keep you safe and tell you what you were.

No matter how much you hated it.

No matter how much you hated  _Michael_.

The boy was watchful and annoyingly intelligent. You had always been top of your class, but he always seemed just one ahead of you in every conversation. The first time you ate dinner with him and Miss Mead, he stared at you until you told him to take a fucking picture, as it would last longer.

He had smirked and smiled like you were the funniest thing in the world, and you had stiffly thanked Miss Mead for your meal, before locking yourself in the room you needed to start calling your own.

Miss Mead, you knew, found the whole thing exasperating. 

She had spoken to you the next day, telling you of how she had found Michael in his family home, and how the two of you needed to learn to get on if you were going to follow both of your paths. 

Your path was one of death and destruction. How could you  _want_ to follow it?

Life continues like this for those three days. You spend a lot of time locked in your room, pouring over the Satanic texts Mead had given you. You read everything you can on Lilith, the lines between what was true and false blurring somewhat. She was a Queen, cast aside by Adam, angry and vengeful and full of rage. 

She was beautiful and ancient and powerful.

You hated that you kind of liked that.

It unnerved you how quickly you fell into this new lifestyle of learning and hiding. It was as if you had mentally prepared for the moment that you would find out the truth; as if, really, you had known all along.

At night, you cried. During the day, you held your chin high and stuffed your nose into the spine of a book.

The third day, Michael pisses you off.

You are standing in the kitchen and making a cup of tea, your bare feet padding against the wooden floor of Mead’s house. The woman had gone out with a careful eye on you and a loving smile to Michael. She needed to run errands, she said.

You half-thought she was lying. You could tell her how pissed off it made her that you and Michael hardly got on.

‘You’re not very nice’.

You jump as you pick up your steaming cup of tea, and the contents of it flops over the edge of the cup and spills over your fingers. You swear and spin around, wiping your burning fingers on your sleep shorts as you do so. The glare is already in place when you turn and lay your gaze on Michael.

He stands with that ever watchful expression on his features. He’s wearing a sleeveless black shirt today, and you try your very fucking hardest to not look at the exposed skin of his arms, the dip of his collarbones, the soft curl of his hair-

‘ _What_?’ you snap, wishing more than anything you were not wearing a scruffy shirt and torn shorts. He was always beautiful and put-together and you…you were not. ‘I’m not  _nice_?’

His mouth juts into a petulant frown. ‘ _No_ ’. He breathes in through his nose, hard and sharp. ‘I was told you would be  _meant_ for me. But you’re not. You’re _fighting it_ -’

 _‘I’m fighting it?’_ The words slam out of your mouth, louder and with a much higher pitch than you had anticipated. Michael, in all fairness to him, snaps his mouth shut and watches you with that heavy gaze. For once, you see something like surprise in those eyes. ‘I am so, so fucking sorry, Michael, that I am not  _kissing_ your feet and  _sucking_ your dick.  _So what_  if I just discovered I’m not really human at all?  _So what_  if I just murdered the woman I thought was my mother?  _So what_  if I am wanted for murder? Shucks, I should be paying more attention to you-’

He scowls and steps forward, all red cheeks and narrowed eyes. You wonder if it was the comment about sucking his dick. You hope so. You wanted to embarrass the little shit. ‘I didn’t mean it like that-’

‘Yes, you did,’ you snap, equally as bratty and annoyed. ‘I’m not going to fall to my fucking knees for you, like everyone else in this fucked up cult does. Lilith told me that I shouldn’t let you treat me as anything but your equal-’

‘She’s  _spoken_ to you?’ His eyes widen and he surges forward, and his hand is clasping around your forearm before you can yank yourself away from him.

It is the first time he had touched you. In your dreams, his hands had always passed through you in that hopeless way. In the last three days, the both of you had keep an equal distance from one another, always careful to never brush skin against skin. Here, now, he curls those long fingers around your burning skin-

And you feel like you’re on fucking fire.

Both your gazes jump to each other, brown on blue, and you realise it is the closest you have both stood to one another. You can see the sheer blue of his eyes, the brown in his hair, the curve of his lips and the fold of his eyelids. 

Above you, the kitchen light-bulb burst into hundreds of little pieces, scattering around the two of you. You’re sure this was you.

Around you, the dozens of cupboard doors of the kitchen slam open with resounds _cracks!_ and  _bangs!_ You’re sure this was him.

You flee to your bedroom, your arm yanked from his bruising grip and your legs wobbling like jelly as you do so. When you reach your bedroom, you slam your door shut and look down at your arm, spying the red finger marks Michael had left in his wake.

You try so desperately to ignore the how much you want to go back and press your hot skin against his until the end of fucking time.

-

‘He’s different. It’s why he’s so difficult’.

You look up from where you chop the carrots, the knife balanced between your fingers. Miss Mead stands in front of the warm oven, her arms crossed and her dark mouth pulled into a frown. You huff. ‘He’s the Antichrist. Of course he’s different’.

She rolls her eyes (something she seemed to do every time you opened your fucking mouth) and shakes her head. ‘Michael was brought into this world with hate and malice and no one to care for him. They all left him. He may be the Spawn of Evil, but that boy just wants to be accepted’.

You frown at her, the carrots forgotten. ‘He’s unbearable,’ you grouch. 

Mead cocks a brow. ‘So are you’.

You stare, unable to form words, before scoffing. ‘You got me there, Miss Mead’. The carrot crunches as you cut through it. She’s still looking at you, her gaze heavy on the side of your head. 

‘You damn teenagers are a nightmare, you know that?’ You don’t reply, and in return she huffs. ‘Praise Satan, you’re stubborn’.

-

On the fourth day, you have to lock yourself in your room and press cold hands to your cheeks, because for the first time since leaving your school, you feel the inkling of  _lust_.

You’re walking past Michael’s room and away from the bathroom, your mind on your Father and what he is going through. You wonder if he had run away, knowing that you would have been taken, knowing that you had realised what you were. You don’t like to think on it.

It makes you too sad.

He seems to turn toward the open doorway the moment you walk past it, as if this had all been perfectly times in his head. You stall, only for a moment, when you turn and see him. He stands in nothing but his boxers, his toned and golden chest cast in the sunlight that spills through his window. 

You stutter and stall and stare for a few seconds too long.

He tilts his head, a smirk lifting onto his features, and you all but whoosh out a breath when Michael scratches across his flat stomach, his fingers trailing just above the waistband of his boxers-

Your stomach drops and heat pools in your cheeks.

You give his watchful and amused eyes one last startled look, before you turn on your heel and practically trip into your room. You feel hot all over, even as you slam the door and press your back to it, your heart hammering and your stomach swirling and-

Fuck. Why was he so God damn  _hot_?

-

You remember only a small amount of your dream, as you wake up in the darkness with the dip between your legs aching and your sheets twirled around your calves.

You remember something filthy and so unlike you to dream about. You remember full lips pressed against your mound and hands pressed almost painfully against your oddly aching breasts.

In your sleep filled state, you wonder why the fuck your body hums with the feel of hands that had just left your body. You wonder why it feels as if teeth had just been scraping across your inner-thigh.

You do not remember much of the dream, only snapshots here and there. You shrug it off and fall into your slumber once again.

It is the first time you dream of him in this way. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of underage. follow my tumblr - alpha-langdon!

Nine days into living at Miss Mead’s house, you find yourself understanding your place in the world.

You had feasted over all of the texts she had given you on Satanism and the Prophecies of the Antichrist and, in turn, yourself. You were the Spawn of Lilith, a balance between good and evil, between the wrath of Woman and the sexual needs of your gender-

You were sin. 

It made you ill.

What made you feel even worse, was the fact that you understood only slightly the reason for coming of the end. Michael had, at one dinner, uttered the words, ‘clean slate’, to describe how the world should end. Everything was fucked and the world was running rampant with terrible, awful people. Why not start it over again?

(You had sneered and snapped that the good of the world should not die in the place of the evil, to which Michael had looked at you with a small smile and pity in his gaze).

‘I cannot choose every single individual who is not deemed  _good_ enough for this world you want to exist,’ he had replied, throwing Miss Mead a meaningful look across the table.

You had taken a small sip of your drink and shrugged. ‘Well, you can’t be all that powerful then,  _can_ you?’

His expression had darkened rapidly, and the sight of his blue eyes narrowing and his strong jaw clenching had your breath stuttering. You did not let him see this. Instead, you turned solidly away from him and inquired to Miss Mead whether there was any chance of you having some kind of device that could access the internet.

Days later, you found yourself with a laptop tucked onto your lap, your fingers tapping rapidly away at News article of yourself. Everyone thought you were dead. Your dad, too had gone missing; most likely run from the people who wanted to hurt him for abandoning his religion. 

You felt sick with yourself when you didn’t care.

Candles were lit in your memory. Just over a week on, and people were moving on without you. How could you be angry, when there was no sign of you? They couldn’t know what you were; what you were capable of doing. 

Even you were not aware of that.

You exit your bedroom, clad in jeans a strap-shirt, and find Miss Mead sitting at the small kitchen table with a book open in front of her. She looks up when you pad into the room, and you offer her a small smile. The woman scared you, but you knew she would never hurt you.

Quite the opposite, really. 

‘Thank you,’ you tell her, fingers linked in front of you and mess of brown hair cascading over your shoulders. ‘For the laptop. I really appreciate it’.

She smiles, amusement clear across the papery skin of her face, and waves a hand your way. ‘Don’t you fret, darlin’. Now, how about you do me something might nice in return, huh?’

You stare, trying your hardest to keep the expression of doom off of your face. You know what she was going to say before she says it. There was only one thing Miss Mead really wanted off of you at all. Your smile tightly and reply, ‘Oh…yeah?’

She snorts. ‘Go see him. He’s in his room,  _sulkin_ ’ because you and your pretty face aren’t falling over to please him-’ She cuts herself off, a wicked grin lilting across her features. ‘Not that you wouldn’t like that-’

You gape, blush and snap, ‘Miss Mead!’

‘I’ve got eyes, girl,’ is all she says, before nodding down the hallway where Michael’s room is located (opposite yours) with a dismissive look. ‘Go. You owe me, Joan’.

You grit your teeth, years of politeness embedded into you and stopping you from point blank refusing. Since the moment in the kitchen, your interactions with Michael had been short, awkward, and snippy. He hadn’t touched you, and you hadn’t touched him.

What annoyed you the most was how much you wanted him to. You blamed it on hormones and lack of seeing anyone else your age (and the dreams that haunted you every other night, about large hands dragging your hips to their mouth), but all the same it made you hot in the worst way.

‘ _Fine_ ,’ you snap, turning sharply on your bare foot and marching toward Michael’s room. His door is closed, white and bare, and when you knock on it once, you hear a shuffle and a, 

‘Come in’.

He is sitting at his desk when you enter, his chair turned toward the door and a discarded pen and paper laying on the desk. Your gaze flits briefly over to it, and with purposefully relaxed steps your pad more into his room. Michael, seemingly surprised to see you standing there, watches your carefully. ‘What’re you writing?’ You inquire.

Michael stares, thoughts seemingly somewhere else, before he licks his lips and replies, ‘I’m teaching myself Latin’.

You want to scowl and roll your eyes because, for fucks sake, why was this guy such an overachiever? ‘Of  _course_ you are,’ you sigh, taking the plunge and plopping yourself onto the edge of his half-made bed. He watches you, and you turn to look at him with an expectant expression. ‘What?’

You were, after nearly ten days of living with him, beginning to understand Michael’s mannerisms. He was needy as fuck, that much was obvious. He clung to Miss Mead like she really was his mother, and you kind of understood that was why he was so disappointed with you. You were supposed to like him, and you did not. He was smart, freakishly so, and seemed to watch everything and everyone with an obsessive gaze.

He was childish, and yet so entirely not so.

It confused you, to say the least.

Michael tilts his head and raises a dark brow. ‘Miss Mead told you to come in here’.

You think about lying, but decide there is no point. ‘Yeah,’ you answer, opting to lay back on the bed with your legs hanging over the side. You regret the action immediately when a puff of strong, woody smell rises from the sheets. This boy was built to be attractive, you’re sure. He was built to drag you to him. ‘Still, I’m bored, and you’re not doing anything important-’

‘I  _told_ you I was-’ You throw him a look, to which he scowls. ‘I thought you hated me’. There it was again, that childishly petulant voice and those moody eyes. He was so insanely like a five year old, sometimes, that you wanted to laugh at him.

You look over at him, your hair splayed around you, and snort. ‘I don’t  _hate_ you, Michael. You unnerve me a little because you’re the son of the fucking Devil, and you’re kind of a dick, but I don’t  _hate_ you, dude’. He looks at you with a deadpan expression, to which you shrug. ‘I’m being honest. Whilst the both of us are stuck together, we may as well-’

He cuts you off, suddenly spinning the chair around more, knees spread and elbows coming to rest on his thighs. He peers down at you a trace of excitement on his features, and you blink up at him. ‘I want to play a game’.

‘Oh’. You shrug, still lying down. ‘Okay. Go for it’.

He looks around the room, his bare and white room, and then flicks his gaze to you with a smile and a glint in his eyes that you cannot quite place. ‘A question game’.

You think for just a moment, before leaning up on your elbows and spinning around so that you sit facing him, your legs crossed. Perhaps this was what you needed; an opportunity to get to know the boy. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t so entirely fucking unbearable. ‘Fine,’ you agree. ‘I’ll ask you five questions first,’ he smirks again, and you smirk right back. ‘And then you ask me five questions. The  _truth_ -’

‘Of course,’ he drawls, eyes glinting and hands clasped in front of him. He was genuinely excited; excited to play this game. 

You weren’t stupid enough to not see the ulterior motive. You were, though, not sure what it was yet. 

You ask him his last name.  _Langdon_.

You ask him his favourite colour.  _Black_. 

You ask him how he met Miss Mead.  _She came with two others and they took me away from the people who wanted to hurt me._

You ask him how old he is. At this, he pauses, before replying with an easy  _sixteen_. 

Finally, you ask him if he had ever killed anyone, like you had. His answer is immediate.  _Yes_.

You nod, feeling slightly more assured of yourself. It made him seem slightly more human to you, knowing these simple things about him. Of course, this is before you hear  _his_ questions. 

Michael tilts his head, wets his lips, and asks, ‘Are you a virgin?’

You suck in a deep breath and your eyes narrow dangerously. He smiles, all innocence and pointed politeness. ‘No,’ you answer. His nostrils flare at that, his reaction so obvious and so physical that you cannot help but raise your brow. His knuckles, above interwoven fingers, turn white. ‘ _Jealous_ , Michael?’

He scowls at you. ‘It’s  _my_ turn to ask the questions, Joan. How old were you when you first  _fucked_ someone else?’ 

Your heart hammers suddenly. The way he words it…it is as if you’ve fucked someone other than  _him_. You swallow, and the rooms seems suddenly so small and stifling. Gaze never leaving his, you reply, ‘It was five months ago. One time, at some house party. I didn’t know him’.

Those blue eyes, so magnificently different from any other colour you had ever seen, seem to fucking  _burn_. ‘Did it  _hurt_?’

The question is something your friends had asked you after, but coming from Michael…it was different. He seemed so genuinely curious. You glare at him. ‘I don’t remember,’ you snap back. ‘Why-?’

He seems to be leaning closer to you, his chair rolling across the floor until his knees are nearly hitting the edge of the bed. You want to both lean away and lean forward; to push your hands into his hair and drag him to you-

‘Have you been enjoying the dreams like I have?’

The question hangs in the air, and you are momentarily puzzled. For just one second, you think he is talking about the dreams from whats seemed like ages ago, when he had been in your mind and you in his; bonded by something terrible and ancient.

You realise what he means, and your face flushes pink.

He stares at you, and breathe heavily underneath the sharp and dark gaze and the way he wets his lips with his quick tongue. ‘ _You_ -’ You start, voice dripping vehemently. 

His hands touch your jean clad knees before you can stop him, and the sensation makes you want to groan. Why was your body betraying you like this -  _why_? 

 _Because you were both made for each other,_  a low voice whispers at the back of your head. 

Michael curls his fingers around your knees and despite the wickedness in his gaze, you know he had no idea what he was doing. His reaction to you telling him of your virginity proved that enough. Now…now he was trying to fuck with you.

And it was working.

You breathe hard, gaze locked on his. His fingers draw up your crossed legs, brushing over the sensitive but clothed fabric of your jeans. You clench, toes curling, and all but whimper when Michael mutters, voice lower now, ‘Did you enjoy my tongue in your  _cunt_ -?’

You slap his hands away and scramble from the bed, ignoring his annoyed huff as you do so. You whirl to face him, face red with anger and something else, and snap, ‘It wasn’t  _you_ ,’ you snap, pointing a shaking finger his way. ‘You wouldn’t have  _any_ idea what the  _fuck_ you’re doing down there-’

He is standing before you can finish your sentence, and it is only then that you remember how much taller Michael is that you. He marches forward with one long step, face etched with rage, and snatches the _bare skin_  of your wrist.

Your knees go weak. His pupils dilate so ridiculously quickly that are breathless at the sight of him. 

You want him as you saw him before; shirtless and bare and so fucking beautiful. You  _want_ him. Want him as you have never wanted someone before; this oddly adult feeling coiling within you-

‘You’re  _mine,’_ Michael says, slowly. He presses close to you, all lean and jutting bone and pelvis so achingly close to yours; so close that you can feel the beginning of hardness-

You pull yourself away roughly, sending him stumbling back. With a few curse words thrown his way, you exit his room with a bang of his door and a frustrated hiss. 

The moment your door slams shut behind you, your are wiping away the tears on your face and pushing your hand down your jeans.

You hate it when you come with the thought of his mouth on yours and his fingers down your underwear. 


	8. Chapter 8

You wake up on day eleven far earlier than usual. 

Perhaps it is because, since your confrontation with Michael two days ago, you had not been plagued by the aching dreams that woke you up in the middle of the night. You were still furious with him, and furious at yourself.

Little  _shit_.

You crawl from your bed and stretch, the chill of the morning air creeping through your window. Your room was still not half as busy as you would like it to be. It was dark wood and dark walls, with a scattering of your clothes and magazines that Mead had picked up for you, per your request.

You listen, head tilted, and realise that no one is yet awake.

_For fucking once._

You pad barefoot from your room and to the kitchen, not bothering with combing your fingers through your hair or straightening your shirt. No, you were hungry and, for the first time since everything had gone down, you were able to cook your own food.

You loved cooking.

One of your favourite pass times, back home, would be to turn on the radio and cook. It was calming, relaxing, and one of the few times you would be guaranteed time alone. You stop in the middle of the kitchen at this thought, a tug of regret and grief at the thought of those times.

You shake your head, before gathering the few things you will need for breakfast.

You decide on eggs, bacon and toast, going about gathering instruments and ingredients whilst flipping on the radio. You missed your phone and  _Spotify_ more than fucking anything, but there were bigger things to worry about, and sacrificing your phone was hardly comparable. 

You’re halfway through scrambling some eggs (enough for the others because, really, you’re not that much of an asshole), when you the radio switches to  _God is a woman,_  and you hum the song under your breath.

Moments like this, you missed the normality of your life before. It was true that you were relieved to be rid of the lie, to understand what the aching feeling of missing out on something your life had been...but simply standing in a kitchen, bopping awkwardly to some pop song...you missed things like that.

You are singing lowly along to the chorus and dragging the pan of fried eggs off of the hob when you turn, ready to grab a plate from the cupboard, when you see Michael standing stoically behind you, just in the archway that leads to the kitchen.

You yell, hand flying to your chest. ‘Jesus!’

You don’t miss the smile disappear from his face, before it is replaced with a quick smirk. ‘Not quite,’ he offers you, voice traced with that annoying lilt of amusement. It was deeper, too. From sleep, you assumed.

You straighten up, blushing, and glare at him. ‘You’re  _funny_ ,’ you snap back, giving his bed-head of curls, sleepy eyes and bare feet a quick once over. Damn him for being so fucking pretty. Here you were, with knotted dark hair, bags under your eyes and the most  _unflattering_ oversized sleep shirt ever. Still, you ask, trying to keep the annoyance out of your voice, ‘...Did I wake you up?’

Michael shrugs with one shoulder, a habit of his, and replies, ‘I was waking up anyway’. He peers at you, side-eye telling you that some lovely witty remark was coming. ‘I’m glad I didn’t miss your singing. You’re awful’.

You fake laugh, before waving at your array of cooking. ‘Food?’

Michael nods without faltering, already padding over to the table. You turn around, mind thinking of him pressed against your, hardness against your stomach-

You plate up both meals quickly, before doing one for Miss Mead and leaving it in the microwave. You had never had a meal, just you two, so when you sit opposite Michael, whose shoulders are hunched and whose fork is balanced between elegant fingers, you don’t know what to say.

‘This is good’. Michael flicks his gaze up at you. ‘You don’t seem like the type to cook well,’ he deadpans.

You swallow your bacon, glare, and reply, ‘Fuck you, too, Michael’.

You both eat in silence for a few more seconds, the only sound the scraping of forks against plates, before he speaks again. ‘You miss seeing people,’ he comments quietly. You look up at him. ‘You miss socialising with others. Did you have many friends?’

You think of them all. Somehow, they all seemed so far away and long ago. Your friends, who you would drink cheap beer with and talk about boys and girls and everything else. ‘Yes,’ you reply simply. 

He doesn’t ask anything else. When he finishes eating, you snatch the plate from under his nose and dump it in the sink, joining it with the rest of the washing. You think he’s gone, after a few minutes of dunking your hands into the lukewarm suds of water and scrubbing away the grease of breakfast-

Until you feel his warm form stand close to the right side of your body. You try not to stutter on your breath, knowing that he would hear such a thing, and continue to scrub at the pan with perhaps more vigour than needed.

You want to lean into his body; to curl your arm around his waist and nuzzle your lips against his jaw-

His hands join yours in the water, and you realise that he is helping you. That is to say, Mead was pretty good at ensuring you and Michael both pulled your weight around the house. She was a fucking hard-ass, that was for sure. You don’t react, only peeking up once to see his eyes shadowed by his blonde curls as he bowed over the sink, shoulder level with your forehead.

You don’t know why you do it. Perhaps it is the fact that his sullen attitude was starting to piss you off, or perhaps it was the fact that you were still at annoyed at him for two days ago. Either way, Michael’s expression when you pull your hand out of the water and flick a few soapy bubbles onto his face is, in one word,  _priceless_.

You blinks round to stare down at you, eyes crossing momentarily to spy out the suds on his nose, before his blinks hard down at you. You don’t know why it is so funny. Really, you have seen much funnier things in your life. 

Still, you laugh.

You  _really_ fucking laugh.

It is a short and loud bellow, finished with a snort and a wide grin that you direct Michael’s way, your eyes crinkling and your chest moving with left over giggles and-

‘Why are you looking at me like that,  _doofus_?’ You chuckle, squinting up at Michael with a smile. ‘It was a  _joke-’_

He wipes the suds from his face. _‘_ I know it was a joke,’ he replies, straightforward. ‘I just think you’re beautiful when you smile like that. It makes a lot of different from how  _miserable_ you usually look’. With that, he flicks the water toward you and smiles that tight-lipped arrogant smile.

And then he goes back to washing the dishes as if nothing had fucking happened.

By the time Miss Mead enters the kitchen, you’re both drying the dishes in utter and absolute silence. 

-

You make a candle in your room light with your mind.

It scares the shit out of you as first, and you feel like a fucking idiot when you tell Miss Mead and Michael over dinner. Michael stares at you, and Miss Mead twitches a brow and chews the side of her mouth.

‘You’re fulfilling your purpose. Keep pushin’ yourself, sweetheart’.

You nod, unsure if you wanted to fulfil this purpose at all, but still throwing Michael a small glance, only to find him still staring at you. You were almost used to the intense beauty of his gaze by now, no matter how much it sent a shiver down your spine.

You got for a shower after dinner, and Miss Mead retires to her study, and when you leave the bathroom with a towel wrapped around yourself and hair dripping over your collarbones, you see Michael as your door is half-closing and his is just opening.

He stares at you, and you stare right back.

The darkness of the hallway can surely hide the sudden flush that travels up your neck and to your cheeks. He tilts his head and stares at you, and narrow your gaze right back. 

It occurs to you then that Michael seemed so much more than virgin. Before you entered the house, there was no internet. This boy who exuded sex and lust and sin, the Spawn of fucking Satan, he had probably never even seen a naked girl before. You consider if this is why he stared so much.

Your fingers, holding the towel together just above your cleavage, loosen somewhat. The actions causes the towel to fall and loosen just tightly, and even you don’t know if you had done it on purpose or not.

Either way, the action causes Michael’s eyes to dart down to the swell of your breasts, now visible over the top of the towel. You don’t know what you’re doing or why you’re doing it, but when his eyes slowly travel back up to yours, you blink once and shut the door the rest of the way.

You try not to wonder why he closes his door, rather than going to the bathroom as he had obviously planned to.

It’s not hard to guess. 


	9. Chapter 9

You stare out of the front window in the sitting room, your nose pressed against the cold surface and your breath ghosting against the glass. You had gone into the back garden sparingly, too afraid of any of the neighbours seeing you. 

Still, you missed society.

You missed simple things, like shopping and your mobile and speaking to people other than Mead and Michael. You missed bigger things, too. Like the sun on your skin for more than fifteen minutes a day, and the feel of sticking your hand out of the window of a driving car.

Mead insisted that it was still too early to go outside, into the public. You had been in her house for four weeks now, and your were going quite stir crazy. Michael and yourself had maintained your awkward, sarcastic relationship. You had no more dreams about him, and you assumed that was his truce.

Miss Mead, on the other hand, was growing frustrated with you.

‘You were bound to that boy from birth,’ she would hiss at you, stirring whatever was for dinner as Michael set the table. ‘Stop  _denying_ it-’

You would wrinkle your nose and huff a sight and reply, ‘He can’t stand me. I can’t stand him. It ain’t  _happening_ , Miss Mead’.

Except, sometimes, you would find yourself watching Michael. Not for his beauty, no. For how he  _acted_. The careful way he spread his fingers and watched life around the house. The way he would tie his shoelaces, and how he would act when he and Miss Mead came back from their shopping trips. He was so human, and yet not human at all.

You found some things about him endearing, and that pissed you off.

You had not seen who you knew to be Lilith in your dreams again. The fact that she was your mother; that she had planted you inside a human host and waited for you to become what you are now...it made you feel sick. You didn’t understand how Michael was so gratifying for it all. He was destined to end the world, and you were destined to walk it with him once he did so.

You didn’t even know if you wanted the world to end. 

You watch a mum and her son pass on the street, a dog walking quickly in front of them. You watch three children whizz past on their bikes, their shouts filtering into the sitting room. You watch and watch, your legs folded beneath you and your arms resting on the back of the couch.

You know when he enters the room. You were getting quite good at that. ‘Stop sneaking up on me, Michael,’ you mutter, not looking away from the fading sunshine of the outside world. 

He huffs and you hear him walk forward some more, until he stops just behind you. You look over your shoulder at him, you brow cocked. Like you, he’s wearing a long sleeves shirt and jeans, except his are white and black to your blue and back. You hate that the colour looks so good on him. ‘I was not  _sneaking_ ,’ he bites back. ‘Miss Mead will be leaving soon’.

You hum, turning around so that you now sit with your back against the back of the sofa, your legs crossing in front of you. As you yawn, Michael watches. ‘Some  _super duper_ secretive Church meeting, right?’

Michael’s expression folds into one of quiet arrogance. He lifts one shoulder in an imitation of a shrug, his arms folding behind his back. ‘ _I_  know what it’s about,’ he drawls, all boyishly messy hair. He blinks at you, mouth curling. ‘ _You_ ’.

You frown. ‘What? Why?’

His arms fall round to his sides, and he looks down at you with those shadowed blue eyes. ‘Your Black Mass. It’ll be your turn to welcome Satan into your life-’

Your head is shaking before you can stop it. ‘No’.

Michael sighs and rolls his eyes. ‘ _How_ are you still not convinced-?’

‘Because  _you’re_ the Antichrist and _I’m_  the Daughter of Lilith. You swear yourself over to _Daddy Dearest_  all you want, but  _I_  take my advice from the woman who’s been fucked over by so many men, that she is rightfully dubious of them-’

‘Bull _shit_ -’

‘Bull fucking  _true_ , Michael. The sooner you learn that I’m not yours to boss around, the sooner this relationship will  _work_ -’ You cut yourself off, face flushing and eyes blinking. Fuck, what did you say  _that_ for? ‘Just - just  _leave_ me to make my own fucking decisions, alright? I’ll talk to Miss Mead when she broaches the subject to me-’

Michael is glaring down at you; staring at you as if you are entirely fucking stupid. ‘I don’t want you to  _follow_ me, like Miss Mead and the Church does.  _Idiot._ I want you to stop denying what you can be’.

You throw him the middle finger, too tired to argue anymore, to which Michael throws you a mocking little smile. 

‘You two - here!’ You both comply, ignoring the sour looks your each throw each other. Miss Mead stands in the hallway, black dress and cape thrown over her shoulders, and make-up done to her usual grim standards. She eyes you both, blue gaze flashing, before raising a pointed fingernail. ‘Try not to kill each other tonight’.

You lean against the doorway to the sitting room and fiddle with the sleeve of your top. ‘I can’t make any promises, Miss Mead’.

Michael throws you a  _look_ , and the woman rolls her eyes. ‘Praise  _Satan_. If I come back to find this house a ruin, some asses are gettin’ whooped. And  _you_ -’ She looks at you. ‘No leavin’ the house whilst I’m gone’.

You throw you hands in the hair. ‘Why do you both think I’m a fucking idiot? I don’t fancy being thrown in jail tonight,  _thanks_ -’

‘Be quiet and  _behave_. Well. To an  _extent_. I’ll be back late’. She leaves with a soft, careful look toward Michael and a hand grazing both your cheeks, before the door slams shut behind her and the lock clicks into place.

It is only when Michael turns to you, his calm mask in place and his brow cocking just slightly, that you realise this is the first time you have both been left in the house alone for an undetermined amount of time. 

The idea makes your skin crawl and your stomach tense. 

‘I was going to watch a movie on my laptop,’ you say stiffly, careful of how you hold yourself around him. ‘I’ll set it up in the sitting room, if you want’.

After a moment of staring unblinking at you, Michael nods.

-

You decide on  _Halloween_.

Michael was aware of the film, courtesy of Miss Mead, he told you. She had shown it to him one night a few months ago, when it was on the old television in the corner of the room. 

You find a copy of the film online, and push yourself back into a separate corner of the couch from Michael, legs drawn to your chest and lights dim around you. You’re not sure when that had happened. You think Michael might have turned the dial with his stupid fucking mind whilst you had been distracted.

He sits with his hands folded into his lap and his long legs out in front of him. You are less than a minute into the film when you spy your first look at him, your teeth chewing idly on your lip. He is immersed in the film. He had changed from his day clothes to a blue sleep-shirt and boxers, a similar outfit to your own pyjamas. 

You should have grown used to seeing his skin by now, but something (and you know it’s some ancient bullshit magic or what-fucking-ever that makes you lust after him like a bitch in heat), but you find yourself looking over the smooth skin of his arms and the lightly defined muscle of his legs. 

You hate yourself, sometimes. You should be worrying about homework and boys in your class and your upcoming Birthday, not how much you want to fuck the Antichrist and what your place in the end of the fucking world should be. 

Twenty minutes into the classic horror, you turn so that your back is pressed against the arm of the couch, and your feet edge out into the middle seat of the sofa. 

Thirty minutes into the film, Michael’s hand drops to rest beside his thigh, mere inches from your toes. You think nothing of it, too caught up in the slasher flick. There was a time, when you were little, that the film, with its poor acting and fake blood, had terrified you.

You wish for those simpler times.

Forty minutes into the movie, you feel Michael’s fingers brush against the tops of your toes. You flick your gaze his way, every muscle in your body tensing, only to find him staring at the laptop as if nothing was happening. His fingers move over the bones of your toes, light and feather-like in their touch.

Forty-three minutes into the movie, he shifts, still never looking away from the screen, and drags his fingers up to your ankles. Your breath stutters and your skin is on fucking  _fire._ Your heart is beating in your chest as if it wants to let everyone within a five mile radius to hear it. 

Forty-four minutes into the movie, his fingernails rake across the skin just on the underside of your calve, and you’re sure he hears your breath stutter this time. Still, he makes no motion to show that he is even aware of what he is doing.

You stare so hard at the screen that you are sure you’re going to get a migraine. 

You are not paying attention to the film anymore. You feel as if every inch of you is aching to throw yourself across the couch and let Michael run those inexperienced hands across every inch of you. You want his hair to tickle your thighs as he deeps his mouth between them, like in those dreams that had haunted you so much-

‘ _Do not let this one treat you as anything but his equal, daughter_ ’. 

And what if you tortured him right back? Michael insisted that he did not want you to follow him like the others did. He saw you as what you were supposed to be; his equal. What if you fucked with the Antichrist the way that he was fucking with you, if only just a little bit?

That is how you find yourself inching your knees apart just slightly and huffing out a small breath. That is how you find yourself pushing the leg he trails his fingers up and down just slightly more toward him. That is how you find yourself resting one hand against the flat of your inner thigh, your gaze never leaving the laptop screen.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Michael throw you a small side glance.

His fingers stall, if only slightly, and you wait only a few seconds before turning fully toward him. Michael, with his sharp blue eyes and strong jaw, turns toward you with a curious and suspicious expression. 

‘Michael,’ you say, thinking of Lilith and men and how little Michael new about something as simple as carnal pleasure. ‘Do you know that I’ve touched myself thinking about you?’

You want to crawl underneath the fucking floorboards and die of mortification, but you know that yo need to force yourself to say the words. You need to tease and push him as he had not to you. You need to speak the words of Lilith, of manipulation and revenge. 

You see his breathing jump, and you feel his fingers curl suddenly and sharply around your ankle. You try to maintain eye contact with him, intent upon gauging every reaction from the boy before you. ‘After I walked past your room and saw you. Do you know how girls touch themselves?’

He stares, something like knowing dawning across his features. He sees your game, but he makes no pay to stop it. You see his Adam’s Apple bob, and push yourself to keep talking, no matter how mortifying the words. ‘I know you’ve done the same about me, but you’ve never touched anyone like I have, have you?’

His mouth presses into a thin line, and the grip on your ankle tightens. ‘Satan is more than  _carnal pleasure_ ,’ he bites out, voice rougher and deeper than you had heard it before. 

You nod, tilt you head and reply, ‘ _Still_ , that doesn’t  _stop_ you from wanting to know how I pressed myself against my door,  _feet_ away from you, with my hand down my jeans, and rubbed my clit and pretended it was  _you_ -’

He glares, gaze dark and fingers biting. ‘You’re taking joy in teasing me like a fucking schoolyard  _bully,_ Joan-?’

You carry on, mortification fading to pleasure at seeing  _him_ finally fucking squirm, and pleasure...at something else. ‘Sometimes, I think of other people. I mean,  _duh_ ,’ you wave your hand, and hope he can’t see past the lie. His nails dig into your skin, next. You’re sure he’ll leave bruises. ‘Do you even know where the clit  _is_ , Michael?’

He heaves in deep breaths, blue eyes so beautifully stormy and angry and, fuck, he really looked like he wanted to murder you-

(Or fuck you)

-Right then and there. You lick your lips, legs spreading just a little more, and press two fingers against the fabric of your shorts, right where you ache between your legs. Michael’s eyes follow the movement with his mouth falling open just slightly, his hair a ruffled mess, his eyelashes fluttering. ‘It’s right  _here_ -’

He yanks at your ankle so hard that it’s a wonder he doesn’t yank bone out of socket. You gasp, your shirt riding up as your body is pulled down the length of the sofa, and before you quite know what is happening, Michael pressing his tall, heavy weight atop you-

And his fingers are replacing yours. 

Just like that, you are entirely stripped of any of the power you had, as his fingers push yours aside and press so hard against your core through your shorts and underwear, that you stumble over yours words in a breathy mess.

He hovers above you, eyes wild and bloodshot and the movie entirely forgotten, and nudges your legs apart with his knees. ‘Thanks for the advice-’

And he pushes, almost painfully, and you fucking  _whine_ into his face. You realise that you could push him away. You realise that you could use that burning power inside of you to slam him away from you. You realise a lot of things, but all you find yourself doing his letting your legs fall open and rolling your hips against his hand.

With heavy eyes, you see Michael’s cheeks flush and his eyes darken.

‘Move your fucking hand,’ you grit out, fingers clawing to rest on his shoulders and hair and you tug and pull and, fuck, when circles his fingers and rests his palm against your warmth, his own breath coming heavy, you could fucking cry.

You direct him with swift orders and grunts and moans, telling him to press harder and lighter and to move to the right. He listens, his mouth hovering over yours but never touching. You lean, desperate, into his touch, so fucking puzzled as to why you had waited so long to let him touch you.

You don’t let him move past your clothes. You are terrified of how much control you would lose if you did so. 

It lasts minutes but feel likes hours, and when you push yourself harder and harder against him, you flutter your eyes open to see him watching you with bloodshot eyes and hair brushing your forehead and his hardness pressing against your thigh-

You come, and you can’t stop yourself from whining his name.

Reality crashes against you like a wave, and shame prickles deep at your skin as you push him off of you, swearing and cursing and clambering from the couch with shaking legs. He had won; even when you had been in the lead, he had fucking  _won_. 

And it had been so annoyingly perfect.

You leave him on the couch with an order to leave you the fuck alone, and when you stalk into your room (your bedroom door slamming shut without any physical aid) you think you see a shadow of a dark haired, blue eyed woman standing in the corner of the room.

To your utter annoyance, she looks pleased.


	10. Chapter 10

_‘Humanity is shit, daughter. Wipe the slate clean. Walk through the ruins of Earth with that boy by your side-’_

You start awake. The voice lingers in the back of your mind, and in your confusion you cant determine if it had spoken to you in your room, or in your dream. Either way, you relax back into the white sheets and stifle a groan.

Last night, the memories of it…it had your stomach twisting and your cheeks burning hot.

You had thought you had him. You were simply going to stop teasing him and push him back to watching the film. Michael’s innocence was something you knew he hated that you could throw in his face…but the way he had dragged you toward him, eyes dark and fingers rough and-

He had made you come. He had seen you flush pink and whisper his name and, fuck, you had enjoyed it. You dreaded to think how it would have felt with those layers gone; with his hot skin flush against yours-

You tear away the covers, check the time, and then march to the bathroom. You can hear the clatter of movement in the kitchen, and know that Miss Mead and Michael were probably already awake. You shower, brush your teeth, and pad back to your bedroom with water dripping onto the floor in your wake.

When you enter the kitchen, annoyingly nervous and dressed for the day (a day of being locked inside, bored and lonely), you spy out the two of them already sitting at the table, a forgotten conversation hanging in the air between them

You don’t want to look at him, but when Miss Mead greets you, your gaze flicks over to him. He is staring at you, smirk in place and blue eyes sharp, and you want to smash his face into the plate before him. 

‘Joan,’ Miss Mead starts, hands resting on the table before her and cold gaze directed your way. You look at her, your hair still wet around your face, and take a sip of your smooth orange juice.

Michael, who sits opposite you, brushes his socked foot with yours. You glare at him, almost missing Miss Mead’s next words. ‘Last night, I met with-’

You take a bite of your toast, sparing Michael a quick, snarky look. You look to Miss Mead. ‘I know where you were.  _Michael_ already told me-’ She shoots him a look, to which the boy presses his foot down heavily on yours. ‘-And I’m not doing it. I don’t need to’.

Mead looks about ready to throttle you. ‘The Black Mass is an  _unsacred right_ -’

You kick Michael’s foot away. ‘One that I don’t need. I’m not swearing myself to anyone, am I? Lilith is already…guiding me, or whatever - does it even say anywhere that I need to do this, or are you just assuming-?’

Mead glares, huffs, and leans back in her chair. You take that an answer to your question. ‘She is  _guiding_ you, is she?’ There is sarcasm in her voice and a cock of her brow on her face, but when you say your next words, she blinks hard.

‘Yeah. She’s spoken to me’.

Mead leans forward, and Michael chews on his food opposite you. You had already told him this information. ‘What-?’

You shake your head. ‘I’m not telling you’.

You are half-surprised when Mead nods in utter understanding with a, ‘Of course, Joan’. You figure…figure it’s a sign of  _respect_ to your Unholy Mother, or whatever. ‘It may be a matter of gender,’ Mead muses. ‘Women are far more open to accepting magic into their minds. The Black Mass was for Michael to accept his Father, but you have already…already accepted Lilith-’

She looks at you, chin tilted high and mouth pursed, and you grow momentarily uncomfortable under the…the pride in her gaze. ‘Don’t be weird, Mead,’ you mutter, to which the woman flashes a quick grin.

-

He comes into your room in the late afternoon, as you are playing quiet music and shifting some of the furniture in your room.

You only turn around when he kicks the door shut with the heel of his foot, his eyes scanning the changed layout of your bedroom. He raises a brow, licks his lips, and mutters, ‘What are you  _doing_?’

You continue to nudge the wardrobe into the far corner with your shoulder, your eyes rolling sky high. ‘What does it  _look_ like I’m doing, Michael?’ He throws you a dirty look, to which you throw one back, and of fucking course he decides to fucking pad over to you-

And you all but have a heart attack when he places one hand either side of your head on the wardrobe, and draws himself in close as he  _pushes_. It moves only two inches before it hits the corner you had been trying to place it, but still, you don’t move.

Neither does Michael.

He hovers above you, clad in that black shirt with no sleeves and ripped jeans. You can see the hair of his arms, the indents of his veins, the smoothness of his skin - you think he was made to be this beautiful. Beautiful and deadly; the Antichrist made to make people sin.

He looks down at you, lips a little chapped, and blinks when you swallow. ‘Miss Mead and I are going to go to the supermarket,’ he murmurs, those ridiculous eyes trailing across your face. ‘She wanted me to tell you’.

You glare, your breasts brushing against his loose shirt, and try not to think about how blown his pupils had been last night, how his hardness had pressed so close to your core, how close you had been to kissing him…’Thanks,’ you say, but it comes out like a breath.

You want to touch him so badly. You want to see him come undone, like you had last night. You want to watch his chest rise and fall and feel his hot breath on your neck-

You can feel it coiling inside of you, the need to press your skin on his. 

You look into his eyes, almost elated to see something other than arrogance there. He looked lost and desperate and like a fucking teenage boy; all desperate to press himself up to you and feel what he had felt last night. The fact makes you want to laugh and punch the air and-

And he moves, a slight shuffle of his feet knocking against yours, and it is all it takes for the skin of his arm to brush against your own and you-you-

You can’t help yourself. 

You move until your warm breath is ghosting the nape of his neck, and you watch him swallow when your fingers dart to move cautiously over the hard flatness of his stomach. It trembles beneath the fabric, and you blink to look up at him again, a question in your gaze, a nervousness in your breath…

When you both look back at each other, you think a decision has been made.

It happens in a split second.

You grapple at the fabric of his loose shirt, pulling him close to you. At the same time, those bruising fingers grab at the skin of your waist, sliding and man-handling the curve of your ass and the fat of your thighs and, fuck, when your pelvis crashes against his, you feel as if you might explode.

He buries his face in the nook of your neck, and you breath heavily against his jumping Adams Apple. You move him, knowing that he needed the guidance and not wanting to waste anymore time looking into his eyes and acknowledging who you were pressing yourself up against. He complies, fingers still gripping you, when you turn him with a solid yank of his shirt so that your back is against the cold wall and your thigh is sliding between his-

And you feel his hardness there. You hear the stutter of his breath and the low groan in the back of his throat, and you know that Michael can’t know what dry humping is, but fuck it if you aren’t going to show him.

‘ _Move_ ,’ you murmur, desperate and, fuck, you’re pressing your hot core against his rough jeans and, with a few quick thrusts of your thigh, Michael is growling and swearing and dragging you by your ass to move against him like that again. 

It is awkward, the both of you trying so hard to gain the right amount of movement to reach your own pleasure, so when Michael rubs his nose against your jawline and pressing his fingers so hard against your ass that it fucking  _hurts_  (and he is rubbing the hardness of himself against your thigh, and you are trying to find that pleasure of last night)…well, when he drags you up the wall with a strength that only the Antichrist can possess, you have no complains.

You moan, far too loud and far too eagerly, when his length (and it must be fucking hurting him, with how  _hard_ it is pressing against his jeans) is a solid hardness against the aching dip between your legs. You slams you against the wall, eyes never meeting yours, and ticks his golden haired head against your chest…

And you hold him there, fingers looping into his curls, and groan quickly when you feel what must be a quick lick and bite at the curve of your breast, visible over your shirt.

You feel like an animal. The both of you, rutting against each other with whispered groans and grabbing hands, your thighs looped around his slim waist and his own rubbing against you…you feel like, no matter how desperate this act, it was almost supposed to happen.

You feel it building, the heat, and scrape your fingernails against his scalp and stare at the ceiling and mutter whatever comes into your mind, your eyes rolling and his fingers pulling your closer and closer-

The world seems to tilt. 

You come with your nails drawing blood against his skin and your breath choking in your chest.

The light above you flickers.

He comes with his nose pressed to your collarbone and a stuttering of his hips, his hipbones pressing into you so hard that you are sure they will leave bruises. 

He drops you to the ground after just a few seconds of the two of you curled into each other, and you discover for the first time how good Michael smells. You discover how soft and pliable he feels under your touch, and the idea of you enjoying something other than touching him in a sexual way fucking terrifies you. 

You look at each other for the first time, both of you ruffled and pink in the cheeks and so aware of this new door you have opened, and you mutter, finally, ‘You’d better clean yourself up before going out’.

There is no annoyance in your tone, not like last night. You had both ruled each other, you knew. There was no one dominating the other; only the two of you, the Antichrist and the Daughter of Lilith…

Michael and Joan. 

Michael stares at you a moment, and you are so entirely breathless with how beautiful he looks, ruined by your hands. He nods, curls falls into his eyes, and without really meaning to, you brush them aside. His shoulders tense and his chest jumps, and you snatch your hand away like the strands had burnt you.

‘Go on, asshole,’ you say, knees weak and brown eyes trained on his blue ones.

With one final look at you, his eyelashes fluttering and his mouth working as if he he wanted to say something, Michael nods. He leaves your room with a final glance your way, and you rub your face when he exits.

-

Miss Mead comes home an hour later, and tells you that Michael is in police custody after having stabbed a man. It was his powers, she tells you, anger in her face and hands shaking with rage. 

He did this because the butcher wouldn’t sell Mead a goats head for a ritual.

You only understand that maybe you didn’t entirely fucking loathe Michael when the idea of him hurt and alone makes you…it makes you  _worry_ for him. You nod at Mead’s words, you jaw clenched and your tongue running over your teeth and when she tells you, three days later after many sleepless nights and wondering how the fuck Michael broke out of jail-

She tells you that Michael had been rescued by a man named Ariel Augustus, who had broken him out and taken him to the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men.  

She tells you that Michael is learning of his powers, and that you need to do the same. 

‘I’m not joining the Witches Coven in New Orleans,’ you snap, to which Mead rolls her eyes.

‘Of course, you’re not,’ she snaps right back. Her mood had picked up since Michael’s secret call to her. It seemed that, finally, she had figured out where to push him. ‘You’re not a  _Witch_. You’re going to talk to your Mother’.


	11. Chapter 11

The house feels empty without him.

You’re desperate to know what he is doing, and the idea makes you feel like a fucking idiot. You were falling for what was expected of you; to be worrying for Michael and to...to  _care_ for him.

Mead is out of the house almost every single day, meeting with the members of the Church and discussing with them Michael’s progress. She tells you she trusts he knows what he is doing, and that the Warlock’s of the School will teach him everything he needs to know on his path to greatness.

You...you are left in the dark to teach yourself.

You do so every single day, from the moment you wake up until the moment you sleep. It is a long month, in the time that Michael is gone, and you work yourself into nose bleeds and migraines as you push and push. You move objects with your mind. You set fire to your comforter. Mead tells you that you are not meant to be as powerful as Michael, and the fact makes your skin crawl.

You know it’s true.

There is no sign of him in your dreams. You thought, at first, that he would push himself into them as he had done at the beginning of all of this. Two weeks into the month of his absence, you find yourself wishing that he would. You want to know what he doing and what he is learning; you want him to know that you’re pissed off at him for flouncing off to his fancy fucking school. You want him to know that you don’t appreciate being left behind.

Of course, you would never say this to any of him.

Lilith is silent, too. She does not whisper to you in your dreams and answer you’re annoyed shouts when a candle does nothing more than flicker. 

She is silent, until she is not.

-

She sits in the darkness, her bare legs crossed and her palms caressing the fire balanced between them. She is naked, skin glowing in the firelight, and shadows dance behind her. 

You blink, and you realise that this is more than a dream.

She looks up at, blue eyes glowing (so different from Michael’s, so much more like the ocean as his were like ice) and red lips pulled into a tight smile. Her black hair is cast over shoulders, and when you sit opposite her, she speaks.  ‘In the beginning, after God created Adam, who was alone, He said that  _it is not good for man to be alone’._  Her stares atyou, blue eyes glowing and face a mask of white. It is the first time you have truly looked at her, and you realise that there is something so inhumanly hideous about her beautiful face. ‘He then created a  _woman_ for Adam, from the earth, as He had created Adam himself, and called her  _Lilith_. Me’. She sighs, and it like the wind ruffles your dark tresses. The fire in her palms jumps, and she strokes it like a child. ‘I told him I would not lie below, and Adam said  _he_ would not lie beneath me, but only on  _top_. For I was only fit only to be in the bottom position, while  _he_ was to be the superior one. Do you know what I said to that, daughter?’ She looks at you, and you shake your head. ‘I told him,  _We are equal to each other inasmuch as we were both created from the earth’._

The shadows dance behind her, and you realise that this dark place is different from the one where you and Michael would once meet. ‘You’ve heard me thinking about Michael’.

She smiles, all rueful and cruel and loving all at once. ‘You scream when you think, daughter,’ she whispers, breasts glowing in the firelight. ‘You are teaching him that you must be his equal, but your humanity is hindering you from being at your most powerful. Michael, the son of Lucifer, is balancing the two equally. You are not’.

You look at her, and you breathe into the air. ‘I’m scared’.

‘I see this’.

‘I don’t know how to be like you’.

‘I know this’. She tilts her head, and sharp teeth peek behind red lips. ‘You are  _you_. Lucifer and myself have never seen eye to eye, even in the Beginning. You follow what you see to be right. The time is coming. The Witches are coming’. She closes her eyes, and the shadows swirl around you. ‘Some say I was a Witch,’ she adds, thoughtful. 

You stare at her, before looking around you into the swirling darkness. ‘Who are they?’

Lilith glances around. ‘My children in the immortal world. My  _Demons_ ’. She moves forward, claw like hands extending, until they touch the skin of your forearm. You just, not expecting her skin to feel so hot. ‘None like you. I have waited so long for you to walk the Earth; to watch it burn’. She withdraws her hand, never looking away from you. You see sadness in her, and you want to ask her so, so much more. ‘I was so wronged in my time. Always told I was wrong and bad and too free. Not you. You will  _fly_ , daughter’.

‘Why did you wait until now to speak with me?’ You ask, feasting your eyes on her as if you will never get enough of seeing her. She does not scare you, Lilith, and you know it is because you have known her, somehow, all your life. 

She raises a brow and mocks you with a small smile. ‘Because you are impatient, and you needed to learn. Because the boy is almost ready for the Seven Wonders. Because the Witches are coming. Because this-’ She balanced the fire in her palms. ‘Is what you need to feel your power’.

You squint at the fire; the way it does not mar her skin. ‘ _That_?’

She cocks a brow. ‘You do not trust your own worth. You do not trust yourself; push yourself-’

‘I have been!’

‘ _Not enough_ ,’ she hisses. ‘The boy was able to push himself into your dreams before he had even lain eyes on you. You lead him with lust and heavy eyes, but his power over you is too strong. You cannot even look into his dreams as he did you-’

You narrow your gaze. ‘I’ve fucking tried-’

‘Not hard enough.  _Take it’_.

You pause, fingers twitching and hovering above your crossed legs, before you stretch out your palms and allow her, your Mother, to balance the firelight above your waiting fingers. When it hovers above your skin, all warmth and rage and sin and power, you breathe it all in.

‘Think of him,’ she whispers, and you close your eyes and feel the warmth inch into your skin. ‘Feel the power and  _think of him. Think of his skin, his hair, his eyes and his evil. Think of his voice, his destiny, his hands on your skin. Think of the depths of his dreams, where only you should appear. Think of him as yours, and how you are on top. You were not created for him, dear daughter, you were created for yourself’._

‘Joan?’

You jump, eyes flashing open and heart jumping when you see the empty, dark space before you. In your hands, you see nothing, and when you scramble to your feet and turn around,  _you see him._ He is wearing dark, formal looking clothes, all white and black and clinging to his form. His hair is pushes aside, revealing more of his face than he would usually allow, and his shoes slap soundly against the dark floor beneath both your feet.

You blink, mouth a little agape. ‘I fucking did it,’ you breathe, dropping your hands to your sides. ‘And where the  _fuck_ have you been?’ you snap, walking forward until you are but a foot away from him, and jabbing a finger against his chest.

You both jump when you touch him. Huh. You hadn’t expected that.

He looks back up at you, as annoyingly calm as ever, and folds his arms behind his back with his shoulders straightening. He curls his mouth into a deep frown, and you withdraw yourself from him quickly. ‘I no longer step foot inside your dreams,’ he drawls. ‘You made it quite clear such a thing was not acceptable’.

You scowl. How had you missed this asshole? ‘Circumstances are  _slightly_ different, Michael-’

His deep breath cuts you off, and you watch as his nostrils flare and he takes a deep inhale. ‘You’re different,’ he breathes. ‘More potent. You’ve put yourself here, in my own head-’

‘I’m  _potent_?’ You nod. ‘Thanks-’

‘More  _powerful_ -’

You think of the fire Lilith had handed you. _It was time,_  she had said. ‘Yeah, well,’ you sniff. ‘I suppose  _you_ are, too’. And he was. There was something so entirely different about him; about the way he held himself and looked at you, and the way your skin prickled at the proximity of him. He was raw power before you, like an wire with it’s endings exposed.

He stares down at you, and he is...he is just so beautiful, isn’t he? So different and yet so the same in just a month. ‘You came for me,’ he states, and there is no malice or arrogance or teasing in his tone. Only fact. 

You wait, before nodding and holding his gaze. ‘Who’d have thought it, huh?’ You bite the inside of your mouth, thinking of the last time you had seen him. ‘I was... _worried_. When I heard what happened. I guess,’ you add hastily, avoiding his gaze and grimacing at your own uselessness. Michael shifts, and you peer up ti find mild surprise in his gaze.’ ‘Don’t look at me like that, idiot. I  _told_ you I didn’t hate you’.

He hums, mouth twitching. ‘I never thought you did’.

‘You’re okay, aren’t you?’ The words spill from your lips before can stop them, and you realise then that even in dreams, you can blush.

Michael is...he is looking at you with a different expression on his face. One that you did not want to pick apart. He nods, jaw tight. ‘They think I may be the next Supreme. An  _Alpha_ , in the Warlock world. The Witches will arrive tomorrow to test the Seven Wonders on me, it’s-’

‘I know,’ you shrug. ‘I looked up all of that Witch shit when it came out three years ago. I thought it was pretty cool’. You pause, wondering if you should keep the information to yourself, but something pushes for you to be honest with him. ‘And Lilith told me’. His eyes flash on yours. ‘Don’t worry,’ you mutter. ‘It took her a while to speak to me. It’s been a pretty lonely month-’

He is twitching, as if to touch you, but his hand clenches at his side instead. You look up at him, heart hammering when he murmurs, ‘I’m sorry’.  _I’m sorry._ You don’t know whether to laugh, really. It what world did you think Michael Langdon would be apologising to you? ‘I would have you here with me if it were-’

‘When will I see you?’ You blurt out, cutting off his words. You can’t hear him say that. Not now. Yous swallow. ‘Only, I’m getting pretty sick of Miss Mead blithering on about how  _brilliant_ you are’.

He smirks down at you, and you shuffle awkwardly. ‘Soon. There is...something to be done. She will explain to you’. There is a pounding them. A dull sound that grows and grows. Michael looks up, eyes flashing. ‘That’ll be her waking you up, now’. He looks back down at you. You look up at him. ‘You’ll stay safe,’ he adds, brow furrowing only briefly. ‘You have not left the house?’

You shake your head. ‘No...I’ll stay safe. You...you, too, Michael-’

You bolt awake as the door to your bedroom opens, your heart hammering and your mouth dry and, fuck, your head was  _banging_. Mead stands in the doorway, her eyes rolling.

‘Fuck, kid. I thought you’d died for a second there. Get your ass up. There’s a goats head in the kitchen, and Michael ain’t here to help me gauge the things eyes out. Up, up, up!’

You stare after her retreating form, expression pale and aghast. ‘Good morning to you, too,’ you grumble, throwing back your covers. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if anyone would like to message me on tumblr about the finale, please do. also, there is a post on my page concerning this fic. i do not want to post spoilers here, so please go look!

_Some say I was a Witch._

You think of her words as you scroll through Twitter, intent upon keeping up with the current events of the world, even in your solace. You had Googled what it meant, and had seen that Witches (the real and the not-so real) thought of Lilith as the first Witch. The personification of female shame from the Ancient days. You wonder why she told you this. You wonder what she wants you to do with this information.

It is two days later that you see Michael in your dreams again. He comes to you, this time, and you draw yourself close to him when he steps from the swirling darkness, clad in those smart clothes, and holds himself like a King.

‘What’s happened?’ You stand before him, only slightly worried for how different he seems. There is a raw power to him; one that makes you worry for how much he is changing. You can tell something is different with him, even in the two days since you have seen him.

It makes you jealous. He was doing great things, and you were stuck in Mead’s small house, your power confined. 

Michael considers you for a moment, hands clasped behind his back. ‘I passed the tests,’ he tells you, and something like relief and worry settles in your stomach. You don’t know what it means. ‘Their Supreme believes me to be the next Supreme. I brought two of their own back from the dead’. He breathes in, deep and proud and is power like static against your skin. ‘I visited Hell’.

You frown at him. ‘Oh?’ You bite the word out.

He nods, and head tilting and eyes trained on you. ‘They recognised me; saw what and who I was…These Witches…they fear me; fear that a  _man_ will rule their Coven-’

You scoff, and you don’t know why you are suddenly so annoyed at him. Lilith’s words ring in your ears; words of her pushing you to conform to this world with Michael, where you will both rule amongst flame and smoke and take down the people of Earth.  _Wipe the slate clean,_  she had said. Then why don’t you want to? Why does the idea make your palms sweat. ‘But you won’t  _will_ you?’ You snap. ‘You’re  _not_ a Warlock. You can’t rule them, because you’re not  _like_ them-’

His hands fall from behind his back, and you see the Michael that you know. The one who lets anger flash across his face and does not like to hear words against him. He steps closer to you, face pulled into a deep frown. ‘What would  _you_ know about it, Joan-?’

You glare at him, tutting and rolling your eyes. ‘Y’know, some people think that Lilith was the first ever Witch. And aren’t Witches all about healing and, I don’t know,  _Paganism_ or whatever? About  _honouring the Earth_? Why would she want me to help destroy-?’

He grabs at your wrist and slams it against his chest, annoyingly so much physically stronger than you. You try to yank yourself away, but he sneers down at your face, his nose nearly brushing yours. You hate how fucking intoxicating he is; how much you want to curl your fingers around his next and breathe into that unholy mouth of his. ‘I thought you were beginning to  _understand_ -’

You dig your fingernails into the skin of his hand, and you watch the way his eyes darken. ‘No matter how much you want it, I  _cannot_ be inherently evil, Michael. And I…’ You are desperate, all of a sudden. Desperate to understand if the words you are saying are right or wrong. Desperate to understand why Lilith was telling you these things. Part of you wished you could be as sure of everything as Michael was. ‘I don’t think you are, either-’

Something flickers within his gaze; something deep and sudden. ‘You know  _nothing_ ,’ he spits.

He doesn’t let go of your hand. 

You shrug. ‘I know a  _few_ things. I know that if the Prophecy was pushing us together, then it must mean that my words mean  _something_ -’

He tights his grip on you, his nose brushing hard against yours. You want to reach up and mess up the neat style of his hair. You want to bite at his neck and show him that he was not in charge of you, not like he was with everyone else. You want to to scream at Lilith and ash her why you were so full of doubt, when she was so sure of your path. ‘You stay in that little house, protected by Miss Mead. You are merely  _jealous_ of what I am achieving. You-’

You pull yourself away from him, his words stinging you more than they should. ‘ _Fuck_ you, Michael,’ you snap, pushing him away with the palm of your hand. ‘You think Miss Mead is protecting you or I because she loves us? It’s  _obsession_. She would do it for fucking  _anyone_ , as long as they had the labels of the  _Antichrist_ and  _Daughter of Lilith_  attached to them-’

‘Shut  _up_ ,’ he hisses, blue eyes ablaze. You think you see something wet in the corners, and you despise the way your heart tugs at the sight. 

You feel as if you understand. You feel as if for the first time in weeks and weeks that something has clicked inside of you. Ever since Lilith gifted you with the flames of her power, you feel as if you have been filled with nothing but doubt. You wonder if she is seething in her own Hell, so annoyed at her plan backfiring. You understand that you have free-will, and you are going to fucking use it. ‘No,’ you bite out. ‘I am fucking  _done_. I am  _going_ -’

His expression drops, shoulders sagging and fingers flexing. He grapples for you, long fingers trying to grab at the scrunched fabric of your sleep shirt, but you pull away. The anger melts away and, instead, you see panic. ‘You can’t-’ He says, and it sounds more like a whine than anything else. ‘Joan, you  _can’t_ go out there alone-’

‘I can,’ you answer back, blinking quick and swallowing tightly. ‘ _Don’t_ underestimate me, Michael’.

You wake up in a cold sweat in the dead of night, and for the first time in weeks you feel as if you know what to do. 

With you bag packed just half an hour later, you leave.

The cold air on your skin feels like freedom.

-

L.A is busy and dangerous, but you feel so different from the last time. You know that you can protect yourself, no matter what Miss Mead and Michael thought. You who you are and what you are, and when the music of nightclubs filter against your ears and the laughter of people rings around you, you feel as if the air has been cleared.

You don’t want it all to end. 

You never wanted that.

You pull the hood of the jumper you had stolen from Michael’s closet further if your head, your bag swinging at your sides. You had packed less, this time. Less clothes, less pointless things. You had, also, stolen a particularly sharp and long knife from Miss Mead’s kitchen.

If your powers failed you, then a knife would do.

You walk through the busy streets, feasting greedily on the sights of people. You hadn’t realised until now just how much you had missed the sights and the smells, even the worst of them all. You keep your eyes downcast, aware that your face had been everywhere just a few weeks ago. 

You fall asleep for the rest of that night in a dark and dank alleyway near a seedy nightclub. Your knife is pressed against the inside of your forearm, and your dreams are dark and quiet. Lilith is quiet, and when your feel the tell-tale signs of a blue-eyed asshole trying to press against your conscious, you push him away with a hiss and a flick of your fingers.

-

‘ _Hey_ ’.

You blink awake, shivering only momentarily against the cool chill of the morning air. You realise quickly where you are and what you have done, and when you see dark eyes blinking down at you, surrounded by a beautiful face, you scramble to your feet and kick your bag behind you.

The girl is beautiful.

She stands just slightly taller than you, with dark clothes and straight blonde hair. You feel something from her; something that feels familiar and in your blood. You understand quickly what she is, and the words tumble from your mouth in a raspy, sleep-ridden whisper. ‘You’re a Witch’.

The girl tilts her head and smirks, small arms crossing over her chest as she flashes just a sliver of teeth. ‘And  _you’re_ the Daughter of that bitch Lilith, huh? Shit. At least the Spawn of Satan  _looks_ like the fucking Antichrist-’

You glower, your tongue running over your teeth. ‘My name is  _Joan_. And why the fuck are you here? And you-’ You stop short, your mouth hanging open. ‘ _You know what he is_?’

She rolls her eyes and flicks her hair. She points down the alley, where you see a back of a man standing. ‘ _Duh_. That bitch over there and I visited your boyfriends birthplace and, shit, he’s a real pain in the ass, isn’t he? Not that you don’t know that. You ran, huh? You-’

‘Where is he?’ You ask, stepping toward her. She stiffens, dark eyes darting to the sleeve of your jumper, before she looks back to you. ‘Does your whole Coven know what he is?’

The girl, as nasty as she is, looks at you with something akin to pity. ‘Yeah. We filled Delia - er, our Supreme - in on that little  _titbit_. The fact that you got out of there makes me think you’re not down for the whole  _end of the world_  thing, huh?’ She peers at you, tongue darting out to lick her lips. ‘So, you gonna come with, or what? We could sue your help taking him down-’

You shake your head before you can stop yourself. God, the thought had not even entered your mind. You had so many opportunities to end it all and kill Michael, and you hadn’t. What did that say about you? ‘I-I  _can’t_. I’m going to…fuck. I’ll find him and I’ll-’ You squeeze your eyes shut. ‘I can try and change his mind.  _I can try_ ’.

She stares at your, plucked brow quirking, and grimaces. ‘Oh, fuck. You  _love_ him’.

Your eyes flash to hers. You feel  _sick_. ‘ _No_ ,’ you snap, fingers clenching into fists. ‘I am fucking  _trying_ to go against what Lilith has told me to do, alright? You don’t…you don’t know him. There’s still some  _semblance_ of hope-’

This girl stares at you. ‘You’re  _way_ different than what I thought you’d be,’ she mutters, almost thoughtful. ‘ _Whatever_. I tried. You know where to find us, anyway. And here-’ She flips open the black bag hanging at her sides, and pushes a wad of cash your way. ‘You fucking stink, and I’m pretty sure Lilith or whatever would be bummed if she saw her spawn walking around looking like  _that_. You wanna seduce the Devil? Sort out those shitty clothes, bitch’.

You stare at her, money between your hands. ‘Your Supreme will just let me walk away? How do you even know if I’m telling the truth?’ Even you’re not sure of that.

She shrugs, graceful and beautiful and already backing away from you. ‘Call it a talent. Plus…we need more people on our side that  _Damien_ doesn’t know about. And the names Madison, by the way’. She flips her hair over her shoulder and winks. ‘Madison Montgomery’.


	13. Chapter 13

The Motel is really fucking gross.

You only have enough for one night, to you take advantage of the shower and the mirror the morning after a deep sleep (no one visits you) and cut your hair so it rests on your shoulders. You know it doesn’t change your appearance that much, but it’s one less way that people can recognise you. You stare in front of the grimy mirror, naked and wet from the shower, and tug at the shoulder length tresses.

You hadn’t had short hair since you were a little girl.

You change into the clothes you had bought from some clothing brand chain. Maybe the girl was right. Maybe you needed to dress the fucking part. Maybe you needed black dresses and black boots and to wake up from the long sleep that you had been in. Maybe you needed to yank Michael away from the evil of the world.

You do just that. 

You tug on the first of the three dresses you had bought. It’s a simple thing, nothing like what the Madison girl had worn, with long sleeves, a deep v-neck, and ended just above your thighs. You couple this with a denim jacket and some boots, and you feel just a little more human.

You know what you have to do.

With your hair drying in messy strands around your cheeks, you settle on the scummy carpet of the Motel floor and cross your legs, your back pressed against the double bed. With your hands resting on your knees, you close your eyes and think

You think really fucking hard.

‘ _Please_ ,’ you whisper, and the darkness inches over your eyelids. Your voice echoes around you. ‘M-Mother-’ The words feel odd coming out of your mouth. ‘I’ve made...made my decision. I  _know_ what I want to do. I need to stop this all from happening, but I need you to guide me. I know...I know this isn’t what you want’.

You feel like a fucking idiot, speaking to nothing. Nothing stirs from the darkness. Nothing answers you back. You clench your eyes shut even tighter and suppress a groan. 

‘Fucking Hell -  _please_ -’

Fingers graze your cheek, but you see nothing swirling in the darkness in front of you. There is only black. Black and dark and nothing. You jump your eyes shut even tighter, and clench your jaw. The fingers trail from your cheek to your lips, sharp and soft, and you know it is her.

‘Good  _girl_ ,’ she coos, voice echoing like a drum. ‘A Daughter of Lilith does not follow  _blindly_. A Daughter of Lilith fights for what she knows to be  _right_ , just as I did with Adam. You,  _my dear_ , were  _never_ part of Lucifer’s plan, but who am I to torment if his son burns humanity?’ The fingers run over the seam of your lips. ‘ _Stop him_ ’.

You gasp when the fingers draw away suddenly, leaving you cold and gasping. The darkness disappears, and you are surrounded with the light filtering through the shitty curtains. When you reach up, you realise that your nose is beading with blood. You had fucking done it - you had gone to that dark place where she resided without even falling asleep, you had-

But what she had said...

You stagger to your feet, your hair swinging, and whirl around. ‘Are you  _kidding_ me?!’ You yell, voice cracking and fists clenching. ‘You  _lied_ to me all that time to see if I had a fucking mind of my own - to  _see_ if I  _wouldn’t_ listen?!’ the light above you flickers, and you throw out your hands blindly. To your left, the bathroom door slams shut. ‘What if I hadn’t of  _listened_?! What if I had  _helped_ him-’

Michael.

Fuck,  _Michael_.

Stop. Him.

But how? How  _could_ you? His whole life had been people whispering for him to end the fucking world - how could you, some girl, stop him? How could you...how could you  _save him_? The truth was, the Prophecy spoke of you and him watching the world burn together, but if Lilith...if Lilith had put you on Earth to stop such a thing-

Maybe you could do this. You were born from the Queen of Lust and Lies and Sin.

Maybe you cool fool the fucking Devil.

It is then that you feel it.

It is a sharp and terrible pain; and echo of a scream that resounds through your ears and has you clutching at your head, elbow hitting your knees as your bow down. It is grief and terror and loss and abandonment, and you gasp and moan into the quiet of the room, only one name slipping from your lips.

‘ _Michael_ ’.

-

You beg Lilith to show you where he is, but she stays horrible silent.

You break into your neighbours room in the morning of the next day, stealing just enough money for a few more nights in the Motel. You unlock the door with a flick of your wrists, and deign nonchalance when you hear the angered shouts a few hours later.

-

The next day, you scream into the mirror for her to fucking show you what to do.

She does not reply.

-

The next day, as you eat stale cereal out of the packet and watch the News, you see a flash of pale, dirty cheeks and tangled hair crouching in the middle of the forest. 

-

You leave the Motel in the early evening, your bag swinging at your sides and your boots clunking against the metal stairs as you trip down them. He is hurt; you don’t know how, but you know. You think it might be something like how he had found you all of those weeks, nearly two months, ago, after you had murdered your False-Mother.

You’re worried.  _Scared_ for him. 

You want so badly to save him, and it is only then that you must come to terms with the fact that you might actually give a shit about the fucking idiot.

You can only hope that the Witches are doing their part to stop him. You can only hope that you know what you are doing. Michael is stubborn and so blindly powerful, and you feel like a lost lamb.

You call an Uber with what little cash you have left, and you think of Michael. You think of Lilith’s words.  _Think of his skin, his hair, his eyes and his evil. Think of his voice, his destiny, his hands on your skin. Think of the depths of his dreams, where only you should appear. Think of him as yours, and how you are on top. You were not created for him, dear daughter, you were created for yourself._

The driver peers at you in the mirror, and you duck your head and pray to who-fucking-ever that he does not recognise you. Your bare knees jump as you hold the bag on your lap, and you direct the driver suddenly and sharply, knowing when and where to turn.

You see something, a flash of blonde hair and desperate, blood shot eyes, and you know you are getting closer.

‘Here’s fine,’ you mumble, stuffing the rest of your cash toward the driver and swinging your legs out of the vehicle. He calls after you, probably wondering why you wanted to be dropped in the middle of a dirt road, but you wave him away with a cold stare and loud slam of the car door.

You think you see him flip you the bird as he drives away.

It is a cold evening, you realise. Cold and growing dark. You turn on your heel in the middle of the road, strewn with yellowing and dead leaves, muttering curse words to yourself. Your bare legs prickle with goosebumps, and your bag hangs uselessly at your sides.

‘Where are you, asshole?’ you mutter, looking at both treeline that separate the road.

 _There_.

You start forward, the tug in your navel directing you North-West. You stumble over dry dirt and crunching leaves, your bag banging against your sides as you break through the treeline and stumble forward. He was close. So fucking close, and something like excitement swirls inside of you. After so long, you could see him. After so long, you could...could  _touch_ him.

You hate yourself a little for feeling this way.

_‘-WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME-?!’_

‘Holy  _fucking_ sh-’ You jump in shock, nearly tripping over a particularly large tree root and you spin your heel, squinting through the large trees. Your heart leaps when you see a figure standing not far away, clad in black with shaggy blonde hair and-

 _‘Fucking finally,’_  you whisper, already staggering toward him, heart in your throat and stomach twisting as you watch the figure sag, hands on knees and muttering to themselves, blonde on his hands and tears on his cheeks.

You drop your bag, just a few feet away form him, and greet, ‘Hey, asshole’.

He straightens up, and you see the blood scattering across his beautiful (God, your heart tugs when you see him, blue eyes ablaze) face and in his strands of hair, and he is  _filthy_. He staggers back, eyes narrowing. He seemed almost  _drunk_. ‘ _You are not her,_ ’ he seethes, feet uneven beneath him. His eyes flash to your clothes, then to your hair. ‘ _She left me_ -’

It is then that you see the bloody and ruined black goat on the floor by his feet, and you grimace. ‘What the fuck, Michael?’ You blink back at him. ‘You killed a fucking goat?’

He is staggering toward you, tall and beautiful and, God, he had grown so much since you had last seen him. Before you can stop him, his fingers inch to your throat. ‘You are not her,’ he repeats, face dripped close to yours and fingers trying desperately to clasp weakly around your throat. You swat him away, fingernails scratching at his fingers. ‘ _Please_ don’t show me  _her_ ’.

You are utterly baffled to see him dry-sob, before a sneer settles back onto his features and squeezes tighter.

You know something is wrong when he takes only a small amount of effort to shove him away from you. ‘Michael, it’s  _me_. This is real. I  _came_ for you - I fucking  _found_ you-’

‘No, no, no!’ He shouts, voice rough and far louder than you had ever heard it before. He glares at you, the words falling from his mouth in a loud, angry rant. ‘She does not want me. She doesn’t  _need_ me. She left and closed her mind from me, she is  _gone and I-’_

You don’t know what possesses you to do it. You only know that you need him to shut up and start being himself again. You need him to know that you are here, and you are here for him. You need Michael to know that, if only a little, you’re sorry for leaving him.

You stalk those last few steps toward him, grab him by the scruff of his black shirt, and slam your mouth against his. 

Your body sighs, as if emitting a quick and quiet  _finally_.

He doesn’t fight you. He grabs at you, fingers melding against your waist and lips bruising against yours. He tastes like he has waited years for this, and you know you have. You get lost in it, if only for a few seconds, the feel of his rough, chapped lips against his and the way his body presses so closely to yours, as if it was made to be with your like this. 

You pull him away lightly by his hair and stare into those eyes that you had missed so fucking much, and mutter, ‘It’s me, asshole. In the flesh. You think your shitty mind could replicate  _this_ fine ass?’

He breathes heavily, eyelids fluttering, and drags his hands up to cradle you by your head. You swallow your words allowing, if only for a few moments, this quiet moment between the two of you. When his forehead presses against yours, his eyes squeezed shut, you whisper, 

‘I’m here, Michael. I’ve...I’ve  _got_ you’.


	14. Chapter 14

‘We need to find somewhere to go,’ you tell him, drawing Michael’s forehead away from yours and holding his head, his hair weaving through your fingers. You feel fucking terrified as you look up at him, his eyelids fluttering and his broken gaze finding yours.

You care. You care a fucking  _lot_. 

He nods, but the action is lazy and defeated, and you wonder what it was he had seen before you had come for him. You wonder what had happened to make him like this; to make Michael Langdon a bloodshot, emotional and broken mess.

His hand slips into yours, palm pressed against palm, and he whispers, ‘The Witches  _burnt_ Miss Mead’.

You mouth pops open as you stare up at him, all of the pieces falling into place. The gut wrenching grief that you had felt a few days ago must have been…it must have been Michael finding her…And no wonder he was screaming for his Father to tell him what to do. And yet…you feel so no grief. You feel no loss for the woman who had taken you into her home for months.

_It was not love. It was obsession._

You squeeze his hand, silently cursing those fucking Witches. They had no idea what they had done; no idea how impossible it would be to pull Michael from his torrent of revenge. ‘I’m sorry,’ you tell him, and you do mean it, really. He loved Miss Mead, no matter how little you understand it. And you needed Michael to know that you were here.

You needed him to change his mind.

You tug him forward, and he reaches down for your bag, his step stumbling as he does so. ‘Don’t be so  _gallant_ ,’ you mutter, tugging the strap of your gym bag from his grasp, your cheeks hot and you palm sweaty against his. Hot, you know. 

Michael allows you to take your bag, but clutches onto your hand as if it is his lifeline. You figure you won’t be getting it back any time soon. You figure you don’t really mind. You direct yourselves easily, the silence between your stretching and long, and you walk as patiently slowly as you can as Michael limps beside you, his mouth pulling into a grimace at every step.

‘You cut your hair,’ he mutters, after nearly an hour of silence. You’re on the outskirts of large building and speeding cars, now, the forest far behind you. People glance your way, obviously dubious of Michael’s torn and dirty appearance. You glare at them when they do so.

You glance up at him and adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. His grip on your hand hadn’t lessened, not once. You nod. ‘Figured it would make me a  _little_ less recognisable to people-’

‘It’s nice,’ he mutters, quiet and secret, and you cut yourself off with a solid swallow. He glances down at you, dark lashes brushing against his dirty cheekbone. ‘You look beautiful’.

You’re sure your face must be maroon at this point. You look away, muttering a small, ‘Quit it, sweet-talker’. You glance back up at him quickly, your eyes popping and a laugh bubbling from your throat before you can stop it. ‘Fuck - no  _wonder_ people are staring. You’ve got  _goat’s_ blood on your fucking face-’ You’re tugging him round and pushing the sleeve of your dress to his blinking face without a second thought, the two of you pressed down a quiet and dank alley.

You’re only half-aware of the look of momentary surprise on his face as the dark fabric of your dress rids his beautiful face of the crusty and dry blood. ‘I didn’t even know you could grow stubble,’ you mutter, your fingertips brushing against the coarse feel of his kin. You falter, realising what you’re doing, before clearing your throat and avoiding his burning gaze, your hand dropping to your side. ‘There you go,’ you mutter, pulling your arms back to your side. ‘You look less like Patrick Bateman now-’

He grabs for your hand (and the electricity sizzles low in your skin) before you can pull it away, his fingers intertwining with yours once again. Your mouth snaps shut, and you roll your eyes just slightly. Some things, including Michael’s neediness, would never fucking change. And then he is looking at a spot over your shoulder and muttering, ‘Look’.

You do look.

You see

There, on a filthy wall, is an inverted cross.

-

The Church is all red and shadows; the perfect fucking cliche of what a Church of Satan should and would look like. You try your hardest to hold your head high and not let your nervousness take reign, but something about the place makes your skin crawl. Michael, still intent upon holding your hand so tightly you’re sure you’re going to have numb fingers, pushes himself in front of you and leads the both of your forward.

‘-You know the drill. The Antichrist is going to ride in on a wave of  _sin_! And all we have here is a weak  _piss_ dribble!’ You grimace as the both of you enter the candlelit room, your eyes narrowing and your fingers involuntarily clenching in Michael’s hand. It is the woman at the front who speaks, clad in a blood red robe with a pentagon smack bang in the middle. Around the room, various people sit amongst the pews, listening to her intently. 

You feel  _sick_. This was the last place Michael needed to be. 

‘Let’s leave,’ you snap in a whisper, eyeing the awed look on Michael’s features. He glances down at you, brows drawn, and you tug at his hand. You pull a face. ‘These people have no idea what they’re talking about’. And they didn’t. They sounded like fucking fanatics.

Michael stares at you, and you think you might have actually got through to him. Then, with a small shake of his head, he whispers, ‘I just want to see’, and steps back to nod for you to take your place at the edge of the nearest pew.

You think for a moment, torn, before huffing and dropping into the seat, your hand snatching away from his. Michael joins you, sitting far closer than he once would have dared. You, in return, slouch in the seat and hunch your shoulders, trying your hardest to ignore the woman’s crass voice.

It is when you hear of peoples sins, that you roll your eyes and suppress a snort because, fucking Hell, these people had no idea. They had no idea who and what were sitting in their congregation. They had no idea what they were talking about. When the end came, and they would be burning in Hell, they would take back their words. ‘Idiots,’ you mutter, faltering when you catch sight of Michael closing his eyes, tears wetting his cheeks.

You blink a few times when he turns to you, eyes wet and mouth down-turned, and it is just when you are about to open your mouth and give him whatever words of comfort that you can muster, than the woman just beyond Michael’s holds a money bowl out to the two of you. Your gaze shifts to her, with her long hair and oddly kind face, and Michael turns at the motion.

‘We don’t have any money right now,’ he answers to her inquisitive stare, voice dropped and sad. You shake your head, as if supporting his claim. 

‘Or any food, by the looks of it,’ she murmurs, passing the bowl to the front, her eyes concerned and her mouth pulling into a small smile. She looks back at the two of you, gaze moving from Michael to your face, and you try not to roll your eyes in exasperation when Michael moves just that little bit closer to you, his hand snaking toward your knee.

You don’t know why such a touch sends your skin alight. You’d been in far more compromising positions with the boy. 

‘How long has it been since your kids ate?’ She murmurs, still quiet and still oddly concerned. You lean forward just a little, ignoring the way Michael’s fingers flex against your knee.

‘I’m fine,’ you answer, ignoring his pointed stare. ‘He’s the one that needs feeding-’

‘What’s it to you?’ Michael grumbles to her, turning away from you. 

‘Just tryin’ to help out a fellow believer’. She frowns, thinks, and then carries on. ‘You know, after the service, I could fix you two something. My place is only a couple blocks from here’.

Michael shifts and you peer at the woman, trying to decipher if she was safe or not. You couldn’t see anything malicious in her, only the genuine want to help the two of you out. Michael, apparently, had the same train of thought. ‘That’s actually really nice of you,’ he mutters, and you swallow a smile. 

‘What can I say? Nobody’s perfect’. Michael huffs a small smile, before blinking round to look at you. It is only after a few seconds that you realise what he is doing. He is looking at you for your opinion on the matter. He was looking at you for  _advice_. 

You nod. 

-

The woman has no idea who you are.

She offers you food, of which you both take with quiet thank yous, and she tells of how she always sees kids like the two of you. Helpless, homeless kids. You hate that she calls you kid. You’re on the other-side of seventeen, and you’ve seen and done more shit than she ever will have.

And Michael…you weren’t entirely sure  _what_ he had done since you had last seen him.

‘-Once you embrace that, at our core, we are degenerate, rotten beings, every last one of us…you’ll be free-’ You can’t help the scoff that escapes your mouth this time, and when her sharp eyes find you, you mask it as a quickly clearing of your throat. Beside you, Michael pays the sound no mind, apparently used to your ways. She carries on. ‘Satanism is about giving in to your urges. Embracing sin; your true nature. I sold my soul to the Devil-’

As Michael drinks the rest of his soup from his bowl and stares at the woman, your heart fucking drops in your chest. This isn’t what he needed to hear. This woman was filling his head with more false promises of the Devil. You stare at her slightly aghast, and peek at Michael.

He was staring at her with wonder.

Your heart drops.

‘You sold your soul,’ Michael muses, voice raspy and low. There is a smirk in his voice, and with careful fingers your tap his knee under the table.  _Careful, dude. ‘_ Did you sign a contract in blood?’ 

The woman keeps talking, ignoring his sarcasm. You watch as she stands and tells you of the Black Mass, of killing people to sell her soul, of gaining money and  _things_ in return. You decide then and there that this woman is unbearable and  _stupid_. ‘You sold your soul,’ you repeat, deadpan and done. ‘For  _stuff_?’

She ignores you. Michael glances at you, before standing and making his way over to her. With a roll of your eyes and a frown, you follow. ‘I shoot up heroin whenever I want, and I don’t get the sweats. And every Wednesday night, Brad Pitt comes over and fucks me ‘till the sun comes up. On Friday nights, I get Ryan Reynolds’. She rounds Michael, smugness in her voice and her arms swinging at her sides, and you curl your lip at her words.

 _This_ is who you were saving Michael from? 

You watch him as he turns, careful with your gaze. ‘So that’s all it is then,’ he muses, turning toward you. ‘Satan is carnal pleasure’.

You think of when he had said those exact words to you, what seemed like so long ago. 

His shoulders brushes against yours as he passes, and the look he directs to you speaks volumes. You stand back when the woman glances at you, annoyed, before settling back onto the table with Michael. ‘Hell, no. We are moving toward the beginning of the end. Our saviour is coming. The Spawn of Satan will rise with his equal, and push us off the cliff and into the end times. We just have to make things terrible enough for him to rise’.

You stiffen, hearing the truth in her words, even as she carries on blithering. Michael shakes his head, eyelids fluttering, and your heart fucking  _aches_. How could you make him understand that he was worth so much more than this world she was painting for him? He glances at you, only slightly, and you can do nothing more than give him a minute shake of your head.

He looks back to her. ‘I hate to break it to you, but you’re waiting in vain’. At that, he reaches for more bread, only to have the woman sneer and yank it away from him, pulling herself away from the table. You watch her, arms crossed and shoulder pressed against the doorway, and squash away the nervousness in your stomach.

This was all wrong.

You can see the cogs turning in Michael’s head, underneath that mop of dirty, bloody hair. ‘I’m the one you’re waiting for,’ he drawls, shoulders sagging and and-

‘How  _dare_ you blaspheme!’ You hear the sound of a knife being drawn from wood, and you trip into action. You have no idea what use you are, but when you yank the woman back by her hair as she curls herself around Michael, drawing his head back to his neck stretches, she yells and trips back.

‘How about we  _put away_  the fucking knife-’ You start, only to have Michael cut you off, his voice deep and sorrowful. 

‘We, before you kill me, dear believer -  _see me_ ’.

She drops to her knees, prayers on her tongue and thanks on her lips, and when she looks at you, she stutters out a breath and whispers, ‘You have both come’.

-

‘You’re so fucking dramatic,’ you snap, back pressed against the door to the woman, Madeline’s, guest room. Michael stands in the middle of the room, shedding himself of his dirty red scarf. ‘You couldn’t have just told her who we are the moment she started yapping on about banging Brad Pitt, could you?’

Michael throws you a sideways glance, his long fingers dropping the dirtied fabric onto the ground. ‘I needed to see her loyalties, first,’ he mutters. 

You roll your eyes. ‘Her loyalties are to things, not  _you_. You really want these people to be your followers? They don’t give a shit about you. They only care about who shoved us on this Earth-’

Michael spins toward you. ‘I  _have_ no one else!’ He snaps, teeth bared and eyes narrowed. ‘My Miss Mead is  _gone_ -’

‘Fuck you, asshole, am I  _invisible_?’

He huffs out a mocking laugh and slips out of his scuffed shoes. ‘You don’t  _want_ to be here-’

You pull yourself away from the door and jab a finger his way. ‘If that’s the case, then I wouldn’t  _be_ here, Michael. Are you thick? I’m here because  _you’re_ Michael, and  _I’m_ Joan.  _Not_ because you’re the Antichrist and I’m the Daughter of Lilith’.

‘I  _have_ to fulfil my destiny-’

You huff and throws your hands in the air. ‘Or you could be  _you,_  not the  _bringer of the end of times_ , or what _ever_ -’

He storms closer, and you sneer up at him, fists clenched and eyes ablaze. You think, horribly, of the noises he had when you had last seen him before today. The way his hips had slid against yours and his breath had stuttered against your neck-

You swallow, and Michael frowns down at you. ‘Madeline is letting us stay here for the night. She has given us food and safety, and so-’

‘So you  _have_ to pay her back by ending the fucking world. Fair,’ you hum, your tone dripping with sarcasm. You jut your chin toward the shower room. ‘Go for a fucking shower. You’re annoying me  _already_ ’.

He glares, and you are reminded suddenly of the petulant boy with the scrunched up shirts. You have to stop yourself from laughing at him, knowing full well it will only piss him off all the more. Except, the asshole, has other ways in which he can annoy you. With careful fingers, he begins undoing the buttons of his black button up shirt, his angry gaze still focused on you. You flush when the skin of his chest is exposed, defined and tanned and-

You swallow and look away. There is a large part of you that still utterly despises how to him you are. No matter how hard you try convince yourself that the sole purpose for all of this is to save the world, you know that isn’t fucking true. 

From the corner of your eyes, you see the shirt drop to the floor. When did he get so sure of himself? Regardless, he was still Michael. Michael who feigned knowledge about how to fuck and sin and all of it. You glance at him, breath stuttering at the sight of his dark eyes trained on you and his bare shoulders and stomach and the way his fingers were carefully unbuckling the clasp of his belt-

You’re hot all over, nearly breathless with the willpower of not pressing your skin to his and feeling that overpowering electricity that comes with the two of you touching. He tugs the belt roughly, his body moving with the motion and a small grunt coming from his mouth, and you hiss and stomp away from him, cheeks red and chest tight.

‘Fine.  _I’ll_ go for a fucking shower first’.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow my tumblr (alpha-langon) and send me requests! thank u so much to everyone who has commented and left kudos xx

You stand on the other side of the door, the towel in the en suite wrapped tightly around you. You had been quick about showering, using all of the woman’s shampoos and such sparingly and shedding the clothes you had worn for the day. 

You stood there, now, realising that you had not taken your sleep clothes into the bathroom with you. 

You roll your eyes and rock on your wet feet, your breath coming out in a huff. Michael was being unbearable; so intent upon living up to his purpose and agitating the fucking shit out of you. You don’t know why you had run, not when the idea of tasting every fucking inch of him drove out of your mind. 

With a resolute sigh, you pull open the door. 

Your mouth goes fucking  _dry_. You’ve seen him in states of undress before - you lived with the boy for enough time.  _Not boy,_  you think.  _Man_. But here, now…He set on the end of the bed, clad in only his boxers, with his elbows resting on his knees. He looks up when you pull open the door, his blue eyes dropping from your face, and back up again.

You clear you throat. ‘Bathroom’s all yours,’ you croak, padding forward and toward your bag, which sat in the corner of the room. You stop short when Michael rises from the bed, all skin catching in the light and strands of hair falling over his eyes, and you bristle.

You know you’re fucked when you don’t even attempt to stop him from backing you into the corner. 

He towers above you, dry skin just millimetres from your wet, flushed skin. You glare up at him, and he stares down at you, and when he reaches up to run a thumb over the droplets of water on your shoulder, you mutter a warning, ‘Michael…’

His gaze flashes to yours, pupils dark and large, and you feel your whole body shudder. The towel you clutch in your hand is so fucking thin and useless, and what if you dropped it? What if you gave in and pushed yourself up against him-

He dips his head closer to yours, breath ghosting your face, and you swallow a moan.

‘Why did you kiss me?’ He inquires quietly. His hand runs from your shoulder and down the length of your useless arms, eyes never leaving yours. There isn’t any teasing in his gaze, only genuine curiosity. His fingers reach your hand, before they drop to the exposed skin of your thigh.

Your jaw tightens. ‘I…I wanted to snap you out if it. I wanted you to know it was really me’. You shudder when his fingers gather droplets from your skin. You’re honestly surprised when his fingers dip higher, just to where the towel ends and your skin grows horribly sensitive. 

His breath is low and his brows draw together. ‘You’re lying’. His hand dips higher and higher, and his pupils blow like fireworks when your legs fall open just that tiny, tiny amount. ‘You  _wanted_ to. Why won’t you admit that?’

_Because I don’t want to admit that I am doing this because I care about you, and not because I want to save the world. Because I am a terrible, terrible fucking person._

You grab at his hand suddenly and sharply, his fingers just caressing your inner thigh. He was so close. You could feel the heat of his skin burning near your wetness. You were  _aching_ for him. You didn’t even know it was possible to want someone this much. How had you even looked at the pathetic boys and girls of your School, when Michael Langdon was just around the corner waiting for you?

With shaking fingers and heated breath, you move his hand with yours.

He breathes heavily when his fingers rest against your wetness, his forehead coming to land on yours as your mingled breath meets between you. You shudder, moving his hand until two fingers cup just the right place. ‘Remember that?’ You whisper, blinking heavily up at him, your breast heaving. ‘ _There_ ’.

He is eager, as always. His fingers move as if he was made to touch you; as if it was programmed inside of him to know the map that was your body. He presses close to you, fingers swirling experimentally at first, until they dip back into your wetness and drag it forward, and you shudder and grab at his forearm at the feeling.

He watches you, and you lean into him. There is no game, not this time. You are allowing yourself this moment to show him that you trust him; that you want him touching you. You shudder and huff out small breaths, reaching down every so often to move his hand and whisper a little, ‘Harder. There. Faster’. And then, finally, when you whisper, ‘Oh, God.  _Michael_. You’re  _so good,’_ he ceases in ghosting his lips over yours, and finally pushes them against your half-open mouth.

He is more animated in his movements as his lips move against yours, fluid and slow and rough and with teeth and tongue and, fuck, he was perfect. So undoubtedly made to move like this with you.

When his teeth move to a new area, toward the expanse of your quickly drying neck, you lean your head against the wall and gasp quietly into the night, whispering for that it was close. ‘I’m gonna come,’ you breathe, arching into him in a way that you never have with anyone else before. The way, you quietly think, you never will with anyone other than him.

The sex induced thought terrifies you.

You come with him swallowing your moans and his fingers curling against you, rough and quick and practically pushing you up against the wall. He is breathing equally as hard as you, and when he pulls his fingers from you and his mouth from your lips, you watch as he experimentally draws his wet digits before him.

You are gasping in breaths, watching with flushed cheeks and mild interest as he studies your wetness on him before, with his grimy features flushed, he dips them into his mouth.

You could come all over again.

He cradles your face moments later and presses hot kisses to both of your cheeks, his eyelashes fluttering over you like air. You don’t hear him at first, but you realise with a clenching inside of you that Michael mutters, just once, a whispered, ‘ _Thank you’._

You push him away softly, so unsure of what the both of you had created between you. He studies you, skin never leaving yours, and nods just once when you murmur, ‘You need shower,’ with a slight smirk. ‘You’re a fucking mess, Langdon’.

He pushes his mouth against yours, and when you kiss him back, you know what you are going to do.

-

You sit on the bed, clad in the drying towel, and stare at the closed bathroom door as you think, think,  _think_. 

There was no denying it, now. You felt for him, you  _wanted_ him. You wanted so badly to save Michael from himself that it physically fucking hurt, and if…if saving the world meant seducing the Devil-

You could do that. You  _would_ do that. 

You didn’t know how long you would be with him. You didn’t know when the both of you would get a moment, just like this, before shit hit the fan. Tomorrow, you would meet with the Church. Tomorrow, you would try your fucking hardest to stop losing him to his Father.

You nod. You stand. You breathe in deeply.

Your knock on the bathroom door is both your death march and your prayer, and you wait for the simple, ‘Come in-’

(And you think of the times you had knocked on his bedroom door at Miss Mead’s house).

-Before you enter. You’re prepared for the sight, of course, but the moment Michael draws open the shower door and looks at you with wet hair pressed around his angelic features, skin wet and clean, you find yourself utterly dumbstruck at him. 

When you drop your towel, you think you understand how man looks at the sun, and it makes your body flush. 

You meet with his hungry hands drawing you into the scolding fall of water, his mouth open and pressing to your exposed shoulder before you can so much as think of what you are doing. You look at him as much as you can, from skin you have never seen, to his hard length, to the hair that travels down his navel and beyond. You kiss him, fingers bruising and clawing and drawing you as close to him as you can. 

When you draw him back so he can look into your eyes, you tell him, ‘I’m fucking  _sorry_ for everything that’s happened to you, Michael’, and he kisses you like his mouth is words and he is telling you _it was never our fault._

You didn’t know it was possible to feel like this. How had you been thrust so suddenly from youth, and into this world where decision were made, and emotions could run so deep? When did you become capable of touching someone like this, and it being of love and not of lust?

He whispers prayers against your skin as his kisses travels, and you run your hands through his wet hair. When you reach for his length, pressed against his flat stomach, his sighs and stiffens and twitches when you move your palm flat against his hardness.

He’s beautiful. So lovely and beautiful and, fuck, you had to save him before his loveliness was all gone. 

He whispers your name and you kiss it from his lips, and you think a solid  _fuck you, Satan_ when Michael’s hands travel over your behind and run up the length of your back. He is clumsy in his movement; so barely there that you are sure that, if you were not paying attention, you might not notice. His fingers are pressing and exploring, his mouth pulling away from yours to pant and blink at you when you rub your thumb over the top of his length, your hand squeezing just slightly. 

He frowns at you when you pull away from kissing his jaw, as if he, Michael Langdon, cannot quite understand  _you_. ‘I thought that even you, the person who was  _prophesied_ to be by my side, didn’t want me’. His voice is low and his gaze burning, and you wish you knew everything there was to know about this boy. You wish you can drag him from this house and push him toward those Witches and assure them that he was worth saving; that he still  _could_ be saved.

Your wet nose brushes against his, and when you mutter, ‘I wanted to want  _you_ , not what you  _are_ ’, he kisses you with neediness and burning as if he has longed to hear the words, and when he buries his face in the crook of your neck, wet hair flat against his forehead, you carry him through his orgasm.

He looks at you, flushed and glassy eyed, and the smile that graces your features bubbles up before you can stop it. He kisses it from the corner of your mouth, and when he mutters, over the pouring of the water, ‘You won’t leave me?’

You reply, ‘Never’.

And you really fucking hope you mean it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m changing the ending of this, as some of you have guessed. I am not going to be following the TV show. I have too much I want to do for Michael. I do have a question, though. how many of you would mind going a different way fairly soon? I’m talking, no Mead resurrection. I have lots of ideas, I just would love some opinions! please don’t be afraid to pop into my ask box on my tumblr, at alpha-langdon!

You step from the shower, so aware of Michael’s lanky form following you as you step onto the hardwood floor of the en suite. You feel, suddenly, the flush of what had just happened travelling up your neck, and you scoop up the towel with quick fingers.

As you drag it over yourself, hiding your bare body from him, you turn and spy out the way he watches you. He had no shame, of fucking course, and stands with wet hair plastered to his cheeks and his form dripping with quickly cooling droplets-

You feel hot. Hot and panicked and like a speck under his gaze-

‘Stop it,’ Michael hums, cocking an easy brow and tilting his head in that way of his. His slanted eyes are sharp, and everything about him was made to be your end, you are sure. ‘You are terrible at hiding when you’re having bad thoughts. My-my Grandma used to say the same about me’.

There is that lilt to his voice that you had spent weeks trying to figure out; one that lingered in the back of his smooth as silk voice. It was worry, you know. Worry and angst and everything that Michael Langdon was, you knew, just a giant fucking ball off. These people...they had no idea what he was. No idea that Michael was a person; a person who could, given the right circumstances, be normal-

You tug the towel around yourself and stick out your tongue. He smirks. ‘You had a Grandma?’ You inquire, so totally unsure about his life before Mead.

Michael hums and nods, already sliding easily past you to grab for a towel on the rack near your back. You step aside, and it seems as if he draws himself closer upon seeing your cheeks flush. ‘She looked after me when I was born and my mother died. Then, after she realised I was not...normal, she killed herself in a house that harnesses enough power to make all those who die in it ghosts-’ He falters, his jaw audibly cracking with a yawn that takes even him by surprise.

With his towel now wrapped around his waist, you stare in utter bafflement at him. ‘As much as I want to pry deeper into  _that_ , you need to sleep. When I found you, you were hallucinating an abundance of shit. Did you not sleep since...’ You falter, watching as his jaw tenses and his eyes flash to yours. You don’t say her name. ‘ _Have_ you?’

He shakes his head, eyes peering almost guiltily up at you. You roll your own pair up to the ceiling. ‘We need to sleep, if we’re going to have to deal with a whole room full of people like  _Madeline_ tomorrow-’

Michael opens the door for you as you move forward, his body stepping aside to allow your towel clad form to move into the bedroom. ‘Why do you not like her?’ Michael asks, following after you. ‘You were being quite rude to her-’

You glare over your shoulder as you crouch in front of your back. ‘Sorry, did my attitude toward the idiot woman who sold her soul so she could do heroin and fuck Ryan Reynolds offend you? Says the boy who refused to get pizza delivered to the house after the delivery boy  _smiled_ at me-’

Although you’re not looking at him, too busy hunting for your sleep clothes, you can practically hear the glare in Micheal’s voice. ‘Miss Mead agreed with me - he had a  _bad_ look about him-’

You snort, genuinely amused, and stand to see Michael towel drying his hair with his boxers slung over his slim hips. You blink, allowing yourself just a split second to appreciate him in the way that you have always known him, but how these people never will. Maybe if you shared your opinion enough...if you could just try and convince him to leave...

You slip your clothes on quickly whilst he is distracted, only speaking when he looks back up at you, the tiredness on his face more evident now. Your little session had probably tired him out even more. You frown when he looks over at you, curls wild, and struggle to get the words out. ‘Michael...’ He cocks a brow, sensing the change in tone. You swallow, your hair still wet around your cheeks. ‘Just because...because Mead is gone now, that doesn’t mean you have to force yourself to go with the next lot of Satan worshipper that you find - and I know that’s not all Miss Mead was to you!’ You add hastily.

Michael frowns, his eyebrows drawing in close as he works his jaw. ‘You don’t  _understand,’_ he snaps quietly, eyes downcast and shoulders tense. ‘I spent four days trying to speak to my Father, and he left me with  _nothing_. I have been abandoned, and I have no idea what to  _do_ -’

You sigh. ‘I do understand, I’m-’

‘You  _don’t_ ’. He looks back up at you, all blazing blue eyes and fists clenched at his sides. ‘Your Mother has spoken to you, she has-’ His gaze flashes to yours, alert. ‘She’s spoken to you,’ he repeats. ‘What has she said? Did she give any indication as to what to do next; how we can bring about The End-?’

 _No_ , you want to tell him. She didn’t.  _Because it was all a trick from my Mother, just to see if I was a lion or a sheep. If I had followed her words, I would be following you into that Church tomorrow with my head held high. But it was a lie. She wanted to see if I was worthy to be her daughter; if I would do the terrible things she asked of me. Lilith is not like your Father; that Fallen Angel. Lilith is from the Earth, and it is the Earth she wants to save. Lilith is despicable and foul and evil and stinks of sin, but even she knows there is no logic in your burning the world to the ground. Who will she torment then? She didn’t bring me to this Earth to hold you hand into the flames. She brought me here to try and stop you, Michael. But how can I tell you that, without you assuming that I am a threat to you and your Father? How can I guarantee that he won’t smite be the fuck down?_

_How can I guarantee that you won’t?_

You shake your head and sniff. ‘She hasn’t said anything since she told me how to find you’. You watch when his mouth downturns just slightly. ‘Michael, just...just think, will you? These people are fucking idiot. They’ll follow you without a second thought,  _yeah_ , but that’s not  _enough_ -’

‘It  _has_ to be!’ He snaps, louder this time. You jump at the sound, a warning look settling across your features as you glare at him. He bids you no mind, his cheeks flushed with frustration. ‘Miss Mead is  _dead_. Those Witches banished her soul, so I can’t even bring her back! What if they did that to  _you_ , Joan? The world needs to burn, and they need to go with it. I’m going to burn every last  _fucking_ Witch-’

What terrifies you is the utter resolution in his voice; the rage on his face...He was so almost lost to you. Things were worse than you thought. You walk toward him and force yourself to touch him, your fingers dragging over his cheeks and drawing his fiery gaze to yours. It was hard; pushing yourself to be so bare with him. ‘They  _can’t_ do that to me, Michael. I won’t let them, and I  _won’t_ let them hurt you-’  _You can’t tell him that you had met one of them already_  ‘-There was one thing Lilith told me, and that...that was that she was the First Witch. Push comes to shove, I’ll use that as some kind of fucking leverage. They don’t like hurting their own, right?’

He blinks down at you, and your fingers stop along the sharp edge of his jaw. His chest, warm and bare, presses against your clothes. ‘Why are you trying to stop me from following the path my Father laid out for me?’

You heart seizes at his quiet words. ‘I-I’m  _not-’_

_‘You are’.  
_

Your fingers drop to his chest, and you flatten your palm there. Something like confidence blooms in your stomach, and you chew your lip. ‘You’re just-’ You clench your jaw, watch his pupils shrink to pinpricks, and snap, ‘I think you’re worth more than bringing the  _end of fucking times_ , Michael. I think you’re more than innate evil and darkness,  _alright_?’ Your breath hitches the moment your words leave your mouth, and Michael’s narrowing gaze only makes you more nervous. 

‘You said you would never leave me’.

You roll your eyes at the words. ‘Just because someone doesn’t  _agree_ with you doesn’t mean they’re going to leave you, Michael-’ It strikes you that maybe he truly does not understand this.

His mouth purses and his eyebrows draw together. His hair, now drying, was a curly mess. It only added to childishly frustrated look. ‘I thought you understood what I was. I can’t  _help_ the things I do. Miss Mead was the only one who taught me to  _embrace_ it, and you’re going to leave me like Grandma and Ben did-’

You grab roughly at his cheeks, frustration growing in you and your heart aching for him. You never thought you would pity Michael Langdon. The first time you met him, you were quite sure you were going to hate him forever. ‘I am  _not_ leaving you, Michael. I understand better than anybody what it is to have a darkness in you that you  _feel_ like controls you’. Your lips brush against his and your eyes are wide and imploring. ‘It. Doesn’t’.

He gives no indication of how the words settle over him. When his head tilts into your caress, you sag in relief. He wasn’t angry. An angry Michael, for sure, was a fucking liability. ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,’ he murmurs.

You smile a little wryly, and press a kiss to the end of his nose. ‘Neither do I. Does that mean you’re going to leave me?’

And when he smiles, soft and beautiful and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth, you realise how fucked you are, because-

‘Never’.

-You’ve fulfilled the fucking Prophecy and fallen in love with the fucking Antichrist.

-

You both find yourselves pressed close to each other in bed, simply because ever time you move to far away, Michael drags you to his side. You pretend to be annoyed when he does so, and mumble, ‘You’re like a living  _oven_ ’.

He huffs and grumbles, ‘Comes with the title’. With his arm slung over your waist and his nose brushing yours, he blinks slowly at you in the darkness. ‘You’ll come tomorrow? They want to meet you, too’.

You heart sinks, but you try not to let it show. He still wanted to go. ‘People flocking to meet me? Sounds a dream’.

He half-smiles, eyes fluttering in a sleepy way, and you think of the Witches. You were trusting them, and they were trusting you. You needed to make sure they didn’t hurt him....you could stills save him...With his fingers grasping your waist and his breath hot against your face, Michael murmurs, ‘I’ll try to never hurt you. I promise’, and it breaks your fucking heart. 

‘I know you will, Michael’.

-

She finds you in your dreams, blue eyes glowing and smile bordering on caring, and touches your warm cheeks with her cold hands. She is naked and glowing, a shard of light in the swirling darkness of her domain. 

With sharp teeth peeking behind a smile, Lilith says, ‘His resolve is shifting, Daughter. Find the heart of Antichrist and continue to make it yours so entirely, and we may just have a chance’.


	17. Chapter 17

She presents you with clothes.

Michael had tugged you back into bed the moment the knock at the door had sounded, insisting with a simply and hard look that he would go. You press yourself into the covers when he tugs it open, and smirk against your hand when you see the older woman on the other side stutter of her words at the barely clothed Antichrist.

She mumbles a few simple words to him, her eyes flashing over his shoulder to you, before Michael thanks her and takes a bundle of folded clothes from her arms. When the door is shut, he turns to you with a cocked eyebrow and bed hair. You push yourself deeper into your covers and blink blearily up at him, ‘Clothes?’ you mumble, voice sleep-ridden.

He nods, his own eyes only partially open, and places them neatly on the end of the bed. ‘ _Another_ kindness,’ he says, pointedly glancing over at you. In return, you poke a very meaningful middle finger out of the covers. Michael sighs. ‘She’s got something for you here, too’.

You sit up, sheets falling over your lap, and try to flatten the mess that was your morning hair. Michael watches you, brow slowly rising, and smirks just slightly when you pull a face. ‘That was…nice of her,’ you comment lightly, pulling what seemed to be a red dress from the pile. You pull the fabric onto your lap, eyeing the mid-calve, crimson and strapless dress. ‘Crikey. This is a bit much, isn’t it?’

Michael eyes his own black suit ensemble. He shrugs, still clad in only his boxers. ‘We are about to meet those pledged to us. I suppose it is best to make a good first impression, isn’t it?’

He looks at you, as if really seeking an answer, and you nod. ‘True. I’ll be sure to thank her - this was actually kind of her’. You grit the words out, and smile when Michael smiles. You push the dress to the side and go to swing your legs over the side of the bed, your bones creaking and your yawn nearly cracking your skull in half. When you blink into reality, Michael is still standing a mere foot from you, his now awake gaze raking over your features. ‘What?’ you grumble, eyeing him with a funny look. ‘Michael,  _what_ -?’

He moves like lightening and water all at once, all fluid and sharp and pushing himself toward you, his hands flattening on either side of your hips as he pushes forward. You move with him, startled and hot all over when his mouth searches for yours and chest flattens you against the bed.

He lies atop you, his hands supporting his weight and his knees resting on top of yours, and kisses you like the both of you had not just woken up. And then, with ease and grace that only he could possess, the asshole draws himself off of you with a smirk and a twinkling eye and says, ‘I’m going to go wash my face’.

He leaves you half-lying on the edge of the bed with flushed cheeks, a wet mouth, and hair like that of a rats nest.

-

It is much later, when the sky darkens and Madeline had fed you both again, that he walks in as you slip on a pair of black shoes, your stance unbalanced as you struggle not to fall sideways. You look up when he enters, your hair brushed and your lips painted red, and you flush when he drops the fabric he holds to his side and tells you, as calm as day, 

‘You are intoxicatingly beautiful. Are you aware of that?’

You snort, blush, and try to think of something not fucking stupid to say. The way he spoke…you would think you were Gigi fucking Hadid. The girl you had seen, Madison,  _she_ was beautiful. Michael…. _he_ was beautiful. ‘You’re the  _beautiful_ one. Who the  _hell_ looks that good in a cloak?’ You scoff, blushing when he smirks in triumph at your words. ‘Piss off, Michael’.

He passes you the lack fabric in his hands, catching your wrist and tugging you forward when you reach for it. With smouldering eyes and nose brushing against your cheeks, he murmurs, ‘Red is your colour’.

This time, you have no idea what to say. When he pulls away, leaving the fabric in your useless hands, you swallow and blush. Michael, in return, smiles that annoying fucking smile and nods to the fabric. ‘It’s for you - like mine. Madeline has…’He looks unsure for a moment. ‘She has told me that there will be a meeting at the Church when we go. It will allow for all to see us and what we are-’

You roll your eyes. ‘As if the massive fucking  _666_ branded onto your skin isn’t enough-’

‘-And we will complete the initiation process-’

‘And what the fuck does that entail?’ You peer at him, fingers pressing nervously into the fabric of the cloak in your arms. You had known Michael before his sudden growth at the Hawthorne School. You had known him when he was the boy. You’d given the man his first handjob, for fucks sake - you knew when he was hiding something. ‘ _Michael_ ’.

He stares down at you, jaw clenched and gaze hard. He sighs. ‘It requires a sacrifice of flesh’.

You stare, breath stuttering. Instant disappointment and fear burns inside of you. ‘A  _human_ sacrifice?’ you murmur. When he nods, you drop the cloak, you mouth pressing into a firm and angry frown. ‘ _No_ ’.

‘Joan-’

‘ _No_ ’. You cross your arms over your chest, shake your head, and implore him with your gaze. ‘It is  _needless_ fucking killing, and do not look at me like I need to get off my high horse. I know what I’ve done in the past, and I know I can’t say that I’ll never hurt anyone again.  _I’m not saying that_. I’m saying that this is a bunch of fucking bullshit, and you are not even stopping to  _consider_ the idea of not following Satan’s  _fucking_ rule-’

He mouth downturns and his eyes burn. ‘It is what I was brought to this Earth _to d_ o-’

‘And I was brought here to  _stop you_!’ He blanches, eyes widening and mouth snapping shut. You wish, for just a moment, that you could grab the words from the air in front of you and shove them back into your mouth. Maybe that’s just you being a fucking pussy, though. Maybe this is what  _needs_ to happen. You shake your head. ‘It was Lilith…she was testing me. She  _never_ wanted me to follow you to the end, she wants me to stop you. And I…the only way I can think of stopping you from doing this is  _asking_ you Michael, because I can’t-’ The words _I can’t kill you_  hang in the air.

He continues to stare. ‘You  _lied_ -’

‘I  _did not_ ,’ you snap.

‘You said you would never leave. You said you  _hadn’t_ spoken to her-’

‘I am  _not_ leaving. And, yes, I did lie about  _that_. That’s  _fair_ -’ He moves toward you and you take a sudden step back, your arms uncrossing and your muscles tensing. You watch him carefully, from the anger in his eyes to the flaring of his nostrils. This was textbook pissed off Michael, and you knew to be wary. ‘You know me,’ you whisper, eyes begging him to understand. ‘I’m a fucking hard-ass. If I wanted you gone, I would have slit your throat in your sleep. I want you  _happy_ , Michael. I-’

You choke on the words. You can’t say them. Those three  _simple_ words.

He stares at you with a torn, angry expression, his jaw shaking and his eyes burning. From the other side of the bedroom door, you hear the clattering of dishes being put away in a cupboard. You are desperate; the words are tumbling from you in a desperate plea, because you know that you are the only one that can stop him. You think, for just a second, you see a flash of something white and torn grace his beautiful features. It is gone just as fast as it appeared. ‘You sound like their Supreme’.

You frown, not knowing the woman but only knowing her name. The Supreme. The Leader of the Witches. The most powerful of them all. You allow the words to fall from your mouth in a defeated whisper. ‘Maybe she was right’.

He is burning. You can feel the raw power and emotion sparking off of him like static, and it makes your skin burn. You move closer to him, a slight lean of your form to brush the fabric of your dress against his cloak, and when his jaw jumps and fingers grab you by the waist, you shudder beneath his touch. 

This is different. This is not soft or unsure, this is hard fingers pressed against you, and your hot mouth seeking in his a fast, open mouthed kiss with teeth and tongue and a desperate fight for dominance. You don’t care about the woman on the other wise of the door when you pant into his mouth and yank down the zipper of his trousers.

You don’t care if she hears the bang of your back colliding with the wall.

You don’t care if she hears Michael grunt into your ear as he hikes your dress above your hips and assures you, with teeth scraping your jaw, that you are  _his_.

His fingers are flat against your bare hips as they inch up your dress, and when he drags you up the wall with his tongue lathering your collarbones, you whisper back to him, ‘Only if you’re  _mine_ ’.

He kisses you soundly, his mouth dying red from your lips, and you tug down his trousers and push the cloak aside. You scramble against the wall, your legs finding solace in hanging over his slip hips and his hands hold you bruising by your behind, and when you tell him, ‘I want  _you_ , Michael-’

He kisses you hard and fast and you realise that there are tears in your eyes. 

His length presses against the your wet slit, free from the confines of his trousers that are slung low on his hips. He is panting against your face, your bodies pressed almost painfully close to one another, and when he enters you with your quick fingers guiding him, you both feel the world tilt and the air crackle.

You were inevitable, the two of you. History had  _waited_ for you to meet.

And as he moves inside of you, his movements quick and rough and bruising your inner hips, you hope that Satan is burning in his Hell. You hope he sees that Lilith’s Daughter was giving his son the adoration he so needed, and you hope it makes the fucker scream in rage. You cradles Michael’s face and bury your fingers in his hair, your mouth open in silent moans as he slams into you, his movements desperate and inexperienced. 

You don’t realise that you are muttering things to him until he gazes at you, eyes shining and cheeks flushed. ‘You’re so  _good_ , Michael. So fucking  _good_ and -  _oh, fuck_ , so good-’

You draw him as close as you possible can, your insides burning with a rapid heat that sends you spinning, and when he breathes the raw and rough words against you ear, you think you might weep.

‘I  _love_ you’.

You can’t say it back. Not yet. 

You rub your thumbs against his cheekbones, you body wrapped so tightly around him you feel as if you might snap. He carries you against the wall, his thrusts becoming deeper and harder and far less purposeful. You come at the words, and it is a burning, almost painful thing that has your eyes squeezing shut and tears leaking from the corners, and Michael is growling against you ear that you’re his, that you’re so good for him, that you’re so fucking  _tight-_

You feel him spill inside of you, warm and wet and on the inside of your thighs, and you kiss the moans from his mouth and swallowing them like you’re starving for them. 

You wipe the tears from his cheeks and, with him still inside of you,d rag his face to meet yours. ‘ _Please_ ,’ you beg, crying for the first time in front of him. ‘Please, Michael, let’s  _go_ ’.

And he looks so broken and so sad and so utterly confused, but when he presses his sweaty forehead to yours and murmurs a croaky, ‘ _Okay_ ’, you feel your heart fucking soar.

-

Madeline stands with her eyebrows drawn tight and her mouth hanging open. Your bag is balanced over your shoulder, and both your cloaks lay forgotten and folded on the bed. 

‘I don’t understand,’ she says, long hair pressed neatly over her shoulders. ‘You’re the  _one_ ’.

His hand is tight in yours. It almost hurts. ‘I’m sorry,’ Michael says, and you really think he means it. ‘You were so kind to us, but we need to leave. I cannot express enough gratitude-’

She staggers forward, breathless and obviously angry, and you take an equal step toward her. She latches her eyes onto you. You had changed from the dress red and wiped the red from your swollen lips, opting instead for a dark dress and a ratty hoodie. The two clothing items juxtaposed quite horrendously. ‘ _You_ ,’ she seethes. ‘You’re  _taking_ the Chosen One from the ones who only wish to  _serve_ him-’

You sneer, the fire burning in your veins and the panic enveloping you. You had finally convinced him, you could not let her ruin it. ‘Look, thank you for everything you’ve done, but we’re fucking  _leaving_ -’

She makes a sound like a cat screeching in frustration, but the sound dies like fire when Michael steps forward, all tall and foreboding and burning with rage, and the fire settles neatly in your suddenly raised palm.

‘We are leaving,’ Michael states, plain and with a voice that makes your skin crawl. ‘Thank you, Madeline’.

He drags you forward, palm flat against yours, and you skirt easily around the woman, your bag swinging at your sides. She watches you both, face pale and chest heaving, and the moment you are on the other side of her apartment door, you feel the panic well up inside of you.

You look at Michael, and pray to whatever the fuck was out there that you had made the right decision. You had no money, no food, and nowhere to go.

Unless…

‘We need to go to the Witches,’ you state plainly, cutting him off before he can follow up the aghast look he sends you. ‘I know what they did to Miss Mead, but maybe…maybe if we let them know who you are…maybe they’ll bring her back. Maybe they’ll learn to trust you-’

_And maybe they can rid your body of whatever Satan put inside of you._

‘They are  _vermin_ -’

‘They are the only chance we have at the both of us learning to control our powers, Michael’.

He is sullen and sharply glaring at yours words, and as you descend the stairs to the ground floor, he yanks his hand from yours and refuses to speak to you. When you insist that you might have to steal until you reach the Witches, he snidely remarks, 

‘I thought we were being  _good_ ’.

You glare at him, the rain beginning to drizzle from the dark sky. ‘There’s a difference between doing something bad, and committing a fucking  _sin_ -’

And you wonder how you love him, sometimes. You really do. But now…now he was your responsibility, and you his. He had agreed to follow you toward the light, however dubious he might be, and you had to keep him on this path. Any little thing could yank him back to the dark and…

And you really hoped you were strong enough to stop that from happening. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am finally taking my own story-line with this, and i am super excited! thank for all the feedback guys, you’re the best! check out my tumblr and send me requests or anything at alpha-langdon! love you aaaaaall xxx

The silence between the two of your is stale.

You stand in the middle of the Hotel room, taking in the surroundings. It was nothing special - some three star in Uptown L.A. Still, something so entirely out of your price range that you both had been forced to practice one of what Michael called the Seven Wonders.  _Conclimium_.  _Mind control._ He had insisted that you get the receptionist to place the key on the counter and sign the both of you into the room. You, in return, had snapped that you were fucking tired, and if he  _knew_ he could do it, why couldn’t he just do it?

Also, you had the underlying doubt that you were not strong enough to preform them. ‘I thought Lilith was the First Witch,’ Michael had remarked, mouth curling and tone snarky, to which you had butted him out of the way and stared round the corner at that Receptionist, mind whirring and fingers outstretched.

You had  _done_ it. Your body was still reeling from the adrenaline rush. 

You had got the room. A room on the fourth floor, something far nicer than the both of you would have ever been able to afford. You had made it so there were no questions as to how long the both of you were staying. There was a double bed, a large window that overlooked some of L.A, a clean bathroom and fucking  _bathrobes_. 

It beat your shitty Motel by a mile.

Now, the two of you surveyed the room. Michael, with his back stuff and his shiny shoes patting against the carpet, and you with your arms crossed and your mind whirring. You were thinking - hard. He was obviously annoyed at you and the lack of plan laid out before the both of you; annoyed that you had insisted that the Witches were the only ones who could help the two of you.

You were annoyed at him for being such a little bitch.

‘ _Now_ what?’ Michael snips, standing just behind you. You turn to him, looking from his always fucking neat hair and the pull of his pouty lips. It struck you to look at him sometimes; to see how much he had changed from the young boy at Miss Mead’s house. 

‘ _Now_ we have somewhere decent to stay for the night. You’re  _welcome_ , asshole’.

You turn back around, but not before catching the quick glower that he sends you. You dump your bag on the edge of the bed, stomach turning at the thought of sharing a bed with him again. You hadn’t even had time to think of what had happened…the way he had pressed himself inside of you and murmured those three fucking words and changed  _everything_ -

‘Why don’t we just teleport to New Orleans?’ You plop yourself onto the edge of the bed and blink up at Michael, who casts you a brief side-eye. ‘That’s one of the Seven Wonders, right? And you can do all of them-’

‘ _Transmutation_ ’. His voice is sharp and smooth, as it always one when he explained something to you. You frown, annoyed at the way he had cut you off, but flipping you hand his way as if to say _yeah, that, whatever._ ‘It’s not…that easy’.

‘What do you mean?’

He looks bothered by something. The way his arms drop to his sides and his shoulders slouch tell you that much. When he swallows and glares and snaps, ‘I have never gone that far before. Especially not whilst taking someone with me-’

You shrug. ‘Well, why don’t I  _try_ it _._ I’ll probably fuck it up, but it’s worth a try if it saved us figuring out how to get there-’

‘ _No_ ’. He steps forward, his glare gone and replaced with that usual uncomfortably intense look. You snap your mouth shut. Michael beseeches you with his gaze, all slanted eyes sharp on yours and quick steps finding him just in front of you. ‘ _Do not_  try it. You haven’t practised enough with your magic yet, and if it goes wrong you could end up very, very dead-’

You shrug, half-joking when you reply, ‘Can’t you just bring me back?’

His jaw jumps. His eyes stay on yours. ‘It would not be worth seeing you hurt, Joan’.

_I love you._

You jump to your feet, suddenly flushed and nervous. ‘Right,’ you say, nodding jerkily. ‘Then…then I guess we’ll try and find a way there tomorrow. I-’

There is a jerk in the air. A sudden tug at the back of your mind that has you whirling around, and Michael curling his hand around your elbow to yank you backwards. You fall into step with him, shoulder pressed to his bicep, and gape momentarily at the sight before you.

She smiles, this beautiful and tall woman, and Michael’s fingers are near painful on your arm. ‘Hello,’ she greets, voice soft and dark eyes snapping to Michael, and then to you. ‘I’m Cordelia Goode-’

Another tug, and a sudden presence pressed in close behind the both of you. You turn to look up at Michael and feel the rage radiating off of him. ‘Let it happen,’ you whisper, desperate and quick and low enough for them not to hear. ‘ _Please_ ’.

You turn to look over your shoulder, just before you feel a hand land on your arm and the world tilts before you. It’s  _her_. The beautiful girl. Madison. With a quick smile and a wink, she drawls, ‘ _Surprise_ bitch’. And something lurches for just a second inside of you-

And there is white and grandeur and you have only a second to see a tall staircase before Michael is yanking you behind him and growling like a caged fucking animal. ‘This is a  _trap_ -’ And you see his arm raise, his fingers bend, and you hear a choke and a gasp and, _for fucks sake_ , why couldn’t anything be simple?

You scramble to yank down his arm, bursting from behind him with a, ‘ _Michael!’_ He glares round at you, expression far more enraged than you had ever seen it before, and his muscles bunching underneath your effort. The choking stops, and you see a girl with long dirty blonde hair straighten up, cheeks flushed, and the women around her gather with a glare and chins raised and a crackle in the air-

‘No, please’. You hold one hand on Michael’s forearm, and raise the other in some form of surrender. ‘Look, if you’ve found us, then you  _must_ know that we were looking for you-’

The woman, Cordelia and the presumed Supreme, tilts her head and cocks a brow. ‘I am still not convinced this is not a trick of the Devil’.

Michael stiffens, and you butt in quickly. ‘I don’t know, dude. I don’t think you would have brought us here if you thought that. You’ve got students here, right?’ She falters. Around her, you see six other women. One of them you recognise as Madison, but the others glare on at you with distrustful gazes and tense shoulders. You breathe out, heart hammering, and lick your lips. ‘You  _know_ what we’ve decided to do’.

‘Need I remind you that I brought back two of yours from  _Hell_. Some gratitude would be-’

You turn on him, exasperation and your muttered, ‘ _Come on_ ’, cutting him off on his smug tirade. When you turn back to the Witches, you see at least three of them blinking in interest at the exchange.

‘And whilst I appreciate being yanked out of Retail Hell, how do we know you’re not gonna  _smite_ us down whilst we sleep?’ Madison points out, her long hair twirling around her fingers. 

You want to fucking scream. ‘Come  _on_. Let’s not be dicks about it-’

Michael is silent and seething, and speaks only to say, ‘I want to speak to your Supreme  _alone_ ’.

There is a prickle of tension and shared looks, and when you look for just a second up at Michael, he bestows you with a look that says  _I won’t kill her._ Oddly, you trust him. The Supreme, Cordelia, ignores the quick looks of her Coven, and instead stares dead-on at Michael, her jaw tense and her eyes unblinking.

Finally, she nods. ‘Fine’.

One of the women, a wild and red-haired woman who looks like she was yanked out of  _The Hunger Games,_ turns to murmur something low and quick to the Supreme. There is a second long exchange, consisting of only harsh stares and tight mouths, before Cordelia Goode steps forward. ‘This way, Michael’.

He looks at you, blue eyes flashing over your form, and you nod with an eye-roll and a, ‘I’ll survive for five minutes without you, Mister Humble’, in a low, quick whisper. He narrow his gaze, before straightening up and stepping away from you with a quick smirk to the Supreme. ‘Lead the way,’ he snipes, arm outstretched.

You watch carefully as the woman stiffens and huffs out a small breath, before starting on a quick march to a room to the far left. Michael follows quite calmly, shoes clicking against the wooden floor-

You turn around and smile the most awkward smile you have ever smiled in your fucking life at the remaining Witches. They stare, Madison smirks, and it is only when the red-haired Witch steps forward with a click of her heels on the floor that feel the first prick of worry. What if this was a trap?

‘Oh, my dear, if we were to harm you and your incubus for evil, we would have done so already. Now, tea?’ Right then and there, you decide you quite like this woman. You nod jerkily, and the other Witches spin on their heel and follow the older woman with quick looks over you.

You can fucking  _feel_ their judgement. 

The kitchen is as grand as the rest of the house. All white and marble and built for women of this status. There is a large counter, and they all settle around it, eyes still cast your way. You, in turn, stand in the archway for a moment, annoyance niggling at the pit of your stomach.

That is, until the girl with the dirty blonde hair and kind eyes speaks up. ‘I’m Zoe,’ she introduces, shrugging with one shoulder. ‘Zoe Benson’.

‘Misty Day,’ another introduces, with her curls of hair and colourful shawl.

You smile a little. ‘Joan Day’.

Misty smiles.

‘ _Obviously_ you know me,’ Madison supplies, still twirling her hair around her fingers. ‘You got that new wardrobe, then? Thank  _God_ ’.

Another woman, slightly older than the younger ones, smiles a stiff smile and supplies with, ‘Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt’, and you blink once at the grandness of the fucking name. 

The red-haired woman turns easily on her heel and places a cup of tea on the counter, and with a flick of her wrist Madison makes it slide toward you. You step forward quickly and catch it, you stomach twisting and your thanks quiet. ‘Myrtle Snow,’ the oddly dressed woman drawls. ‘And you must be the Daughter of Lilith. I am, I must say, a big fan of hers’.

You raise your tea, struggle for what to say. ‘I’ll, er, be sure to tell her’. The woman lets out a tinkling little giggle, her careful gaze never leaving you. 

‘So,’ Madison Montgomery drawls, kicking her leg over the other and crossing them. ‘You fucked him into seeing the Light, huh-?’

‘ _Madison_!’ 

‘What?’

You snort, sip your tea, and reply. ‘I get why you guys don’t just trust us. Really, I do’.

‘You mean with you going down on the Antichrist and all-’

‘ _Madison_!’

‘Oh my God -  _what_?’

‘Now, my dear’. Myrtle Snow leans against the counter to your left, her glasses dipping down her nose and her beads clattering. ‘Can you say, with utter certainty, that Michael Langdon wishes to see the Light?’

‘Because I’ve seen where he comes from,’ Madison interjects. ‘And it ain’t pretty, bitch’.

You blink, your mouth burning slightly from the tea, and shrug. ‘He wants to try’.

‘So,’ Coco pipes up, eyebrows drawn together. She glances from each Witch. ‘Does this mean he  _is_ the next Supreme, or-’

‘No,’ Myrtle muses, a slight smile tugging at her lips. ‘I believe we can safely say that title will one day lay with our Ma-’

There is a sudden clatter of footsteps in the quiet of the house. For the first time, you wonder just how many Witches there are sleeping above you. You turn, nervous and eager, to see both Cordelia and Michael walk over the entryway and toward the kitchen. On her face, Cordelia Goode holds a small and simple smile.

Michael stops beside her, meets your gaze, and give a small nod. You sigh quietly, your mouth pricking up just slightly at him. Although the air between the two of you was static, and you were sure his adjustment would be a fucking nightmare, you don’t think you could ever love him more than you do in that moment. Still…worry swirled inside of you.

Certain people would not be pleased about his choice.

‘Michael Langdon, Joan Day,’ Cordelia clasps her hands in front of her. ‘Welcome to Miss Robichaux’s Academy’.


	19. Chapter 19

Three days, and you were on the brink of killing him.

He was sullen;  _agonisingly_ so. Cordelia had informed the girls of the school that you and Michael were to join, no questions asked. You were to sit in on classes, you were to behave, and you were to not cause harm to anyone who resided within the house.

You were given clothes, meals, and a bedroom for the both of you. Michael had dragged you to him when Zoe had tried to show you the dorms where all of the other girls stayed, but at Michael’s, and finally yours, insistence, you were housed with Michael in his private room.

It worried you, how natural it felt to be so close to him all the time. With anyone else, you think you might have hated it. 

The two of you had been prickly toward one another. Michael, resentful at being in a house full of the women who took Miss Mead from him, and you resentful at him for being such a brat. You were tired, exhaustively so. Every night since being here, in that room that was bare and so entirely devoid of personality, you would listen to Michael shift in his sleep.

You hadn’t touched each other. Not since the time in Madeline's house.

The two of you had meals later than the rest, both of you quiet and worried of pushing yourselves too much into the lives of all of these Witches. You were wary of the power they all held. Wary of Michael and if he would snap. Wary of whether you had made the right decision.

You had not seen Lilith since you had taken Michael from the Satanist Cult, yet she was the one who insisted you take this path. 

It is on the third night that something happens. You had both gone to bed with quiet words and the knowledge that tomorrow your classes would begin. Michael had used his powers sneakily, never in sight of any of the Witches in charge of this place. Whilst he rarely spoke to them at all, you found yourself crossing paths with Madison more and more.

You didn’t think he liked it.

On the third night, you’re fast asleep when you feel a quick pressed on the hollow of your throat. You snap away with a frightened and surprised gasp that catches in your throat, your eyes wide and searching in the dark for what was happening, who was on top of you, why they were-

He presses his thumbs into the small of your throat, hard and angrily, and his blue eyes seem to almost glow in the dark with angry, hard rage that is directed solely at you. 

You choke, seeing nothing of Michael in this strangers gaze, and murmur his name. ‘M-Michael-’ You press your hands against his, against where he was choking the breath from your body, and force every inch of power that you have in your sleepy body to  _burn him._

Your fingers touch your skin with a sizzle and a hiss, and he snaps from the angry daze with a noticeable slackening of his body and a heavy blinking of his eyes. He still straddles you, and when his hands snatch away from your throat and the tears spill down his cheeks, you choke beneath him.

‘It-it’s  _okay_ -’ You rasp, your fingers now cool against the skin you had burn him. He scrambles to get off of you, the tears spilling over onto his cheeks and his voice a desperate whine as he reaches for you, kneeling on the space beside you in the bed.

‘No, no, no,’ he mutters, reaching for your hair, your shoulder and then, finally, the red patch of your aching throat. ‘Joan - I’m sorry - I didn’t  _realise_ -’ He is babbling and crying softly, and the sight fucking terrifies you. You had seem him broken, of course, but this was different. He seemed so genuinely aghast with himself. You cough, and his watery blue eyes find yours, and his chest jumps with a small sob. ‘I’m a monster. I’m a fucking  _monster_ ’.

You curl toward him, heart still beating and skin still prickling from the pure hatred in his gaze as he had glared down at your choking form. You drag him toward you and despite his much larger form, you curl your legs around him and drag him onto your lap, his head pressed against your chest and his tears seeping through your shirt. ‘It wasn’t you,’ you murmur, fingers stroking against his scalp as he shudders against you. ‘I know you wouldn’t hurt me, Michael’. 

You pull his face to look up at yours, and welcome to desperate kiss he presses to your mouth. His tears smudge your cheeks and his curls wrap around your fingers, and you soothe him with words and assurances that he is not a monster, that you know it wasn’t him, and that you will help him overcome this.

You think of the white-faced, black-eyed man you had seen on his face days ago, and wonder who or what that had been. You wonder if it can be got rid of.

You hold him, heart aching and cheek pressed against the top of his head, and wonder if this is what real intimacy is. You wonder if this is what people in love do. You wonder if this is unconditional love. His tears stop and his hand finds yours in the dark, and you think that Satan might be out to get you.

‘I  _won’t_ let him hurt you,’ Michael mutters angrily, voice a rasp in the night of New Orleans. 

‘Right back at you, asshole,’ you whisper against the shell of his ear. You are both curled around each other in the middle of the bed, the white curtains moving in a small breeze, and it is in that moment that you press your nose to his hair and say, quietly, ‘Michael?’

He looks up at you. You wonder if he would let anyone else see him like this. You wonder if even Miss Mead had seen him like this. He is breathtaking, you decide, and if you can stand by him in moments like this, then maybe it is time to voice your silent words. ‘I love you, too. Idiot’.

He kisses you again, slow and long and you wonder how you had lived without him. You wonder how Lilith had planted you on this Earth to save this stupid boy from his own fate. You wonder if she had known who you would both me to each other. You curl your fingers around his jaw, and allow him to shift in your arms until he is kneeling before you, far taller and with his t-shirt sliding over to reveal one sharp collarbone in the night.

His tears are dry against his cheeks, and when his eyes flash up to yours and his jaw tightens, you see the Michael you know and  _love_. Strong. Soft. A boy who so desperately wants to be  _good_. He drags his hands to your waist, and your legs remain either side of his kneeling form. ‘I want to kiss you,’ he murmurs, low. ‘...Here’.

He draws his hands lower down your waist, where your hipbones sit beneath soft skin, and you shudder underneath his touch. ‘You don’t have to...’ You begin to murmur, half worried that he felt the need to say sorry in this way.

‘I  _want_ to,’ he replies, thumb already dipping beneath the shorts you wear. His curls are ruined from their usual slick middle parting, and his eyes are still shiny from his tears. When he dips closer to you, lean chest leaning over yours and causing your legs to fall open more, you think you might have an asthma attack. ‘I’ve  _always_ wanted to’.

You nod eventually, your breath low and rapid in your chest and your stomach turning when he nods, licks his lips, and brings forth a wickedly soft smile. Only he could achieve something like that, you were sure.  

He kisses your mouth and your throat, pressing the flat of his tongue to the surface when needed and licking away the taste of salty tears he had left there. You think of the last few days as he draws his thumbs further into the waistband of your underwear and shorts and kisses down your throat, and you think this might be the both of you saying sorry.

He kisses the aching, bruising part of your neck with a flick of his tongue and a deep inhale, before carrying on his way.  

You shudder when you’re exposed to the the room, the shorts dragging down your legs with Michael taking the lead. He tosses them to the side, and they land with a soft thud on the wooden floor. He draws close to you, a silhouette in the night, and when the light on the bedside flicks on with no warning, you jump.

Michael holds you by your knees, and smirks with dark eyes when you blink up at him. ‘I want to appreciate the view,’ he murmurs softly, before dipping down to the V of your legs with nose running along the inside of your thigh, and you fucking  _shudder_. He sniffs, the cold air hitting wetness of your womanhood, and you think that no one has ever been so close to you. Even sex felt less intimate than this.

You grab at the sheets when he touches you, his fingers careful and soft, and huff out a laugh when he asks, ‘What do I do?’

‘Knowing you,’ you mutter, gasping when he pushing a finger inside of you. ‘You’ll be annoyingly fucking good at it - shit,  _Michael_ -’ He leans in, his warm tongue licking a strip, and the moan he makes is fucking  _pornographic_. ‘ _See_ ’. You guide him as he licks you, telling him when and where teeth were allowed, and where they were not. When his fingers move to fast inside of you, you swallow your moans and tell him to slow down just a little, to maybe try  _sucking_ -

You never particularly understood the term  _eat you out_ , but the way Michael devours you...there can only be  _one_ thing to call it. 

His sucks and licks and curls his fingers inside of you, his other hand coming to yank yours from balling your fist in the sheets. You are half-aware of him placing you hand in his curls, and nod with a half-lidded moan when he pulls away from you, his dark eyes blinking up at you in the light, and rasps, ‘Do that with my hair’.

You do. He fucking  _loves_ it. 

You move underneath him, so much so that he curls a hand around your hip and holds you in his place, his tongue working and his fingers curling and then - You come with him growling against you and his fingers pushing against your skin, and your hips grind into his mouth and your fingers yank at his hair-

He crawls up your body after, and you taste yourself against his mouth, and when you drag him into your arms and kick the covers over you, you laugh and whisper against his lips, ‘I might tell you I love you more often if that’s the reaction I get’.

He curls his fingers into your hair and holds you in place, his nose buried in your short locks and his chest still heaving. ‘I won’t hurt you again. I promise’.

‘You can’t,’ you whisper back. ‘But that’s okay’.

-

They practically ogle at him.

You bristle under their stares, the two of you sitting side by side around the small table. Michael is all straight backed, blank-faced propriety, whilst you are tired and grumpy and annoyed with the way they are looking at him.

He smirks when he thinks no one is looking. 

It is Zoe and Queenie who stand at the head of the classroom, and they are talking about protective spells. You were only ten minutes into the class, and you were already lost. Spells? Hell, you hardly understood half of the shit you could do, let alone all of this bonus Witchy shit that was just around the corner. 

Michael’s hand darts into the air, and you think of the kids like him at your old school. Whilst you had been pretty damn smart at your High School, Michael was a fucking  _swot_. Zoe eyes him, looks at Queenie, before nodding and calling his name. They were scared of him, you could tell. You didn’t blame them. He  _was_ the fucking Antichrist. 

‘What is the difference between a protective spell, and a potion?’ His voice is devoid of any emotion, and you wonder why he portrayed himself to the world in this way. The Witches around you flutter and stare at him, obviously befuddled by his beauty, and though it annoys you, you cant really fucking blame them.

He was  _ridiculously_ beautiful.

You take an abundance of notes, too worried on missing out on anything that can help you in the future. Protective spells? Perfect. You needed to know everything you fucking could to protect your magnet-for-danger boyfriend from his dickhead dad.

Boyfriend. Is that what he was? It seemed such a trivial name for it. You had been fucking  _destined_ , or whatever.

The class ends and you stand with Michael, rolling your eyes when a few of the girls turn to catch the way he waits for you to leave your chair. You turn to Zoe and Queenie, the Witches watching you, and share a small little nod with them.  _Everything is going okay, so far. Last night was a blip for him._

‘They all want to fuck you,’ you mutter to him. 

Michael scoffs and casts a low side-eye to you. You blush when you remember those eyes gazing up at you the night before. ‘Oh, well,’ with a graceful little shrug that makes you want to throttle him. ‘ _Jealous_ , love?’

You blink in utter bafflement at the nickname. ‘Shut  _up_ ’.

-

It is evening when you see Cordelia.

You knock on the door and slip into her Office, your palms sweaty and your stomach turning. You don’t know why you’re here, but something tells you you need to speak with the Supreme. Maybe it’s Lilith guiding you. Maybe it’s your intuition. 

‘Joan,’ she stands, smile tight and kind. ‘Is there a problem?’ Her dark brow draws close, and you shake your head quickly.

‘No, no. It’s nothing like that’. You walk forward, shoes clacking against the floor, and wring your hands in front of her. ‘Michael is...he’s doing good. He’s trying. I just...thank you for letting us stay here. There’s something...’ You breathe, think, and blurt the words out. ‘There is still something evil in him, something that the Devil is controlling, and I think we need to get it the fuck out of him. Sorry-’

She breathes, chest rising and eyes widening somewhat. She moves with grace that you envy, and stops just a foot before you. ‘The White Faced Demon,’ she breathes, watching you carefully.

You jolt and nod jerkily. ‘ _Yes_ ’.


End file.
